


Where the tracks meet

by PunkyNemo (TheVampireCat)



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Smut, Terminus, angst angst angst, bethyl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:50:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1967880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVampireCat/pseuds/PunkyNemo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With plans under way to get Eugene to DC, there's a little time for reflection.</p><p>A series of interrelated one-shots set post-boxcar once Beth has reunited with the group.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Romeo

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing a series of one-shots on my blog from various prompts that people have sent me and they've all ended up basically being set in the same universe, so I'm just putting them here in case anyone wants to read them. Some are silly, some are sweet, some are angsty. They all generally revolve around Beth and Daryl but sometimes are from the point of view of different characters. Hope you enjoy and they're not too silly.
> 
> I have not stopped with _Burn_ , it is still my main focus but it is much harder than these.

The satellite phone lay untouched on the table and, in the name of all things holy, it was pissing Abraham off something fierce. He wasn’t used to being ignored, wasn’t used to repeating himself. Because when Abraham spoke, people listened. Always had. He liked to think they always would.

At first, it had just been his physique. There’s a certain misplaced respect that comes with being built like a brick with more muscles than sense. But the truth was he knew it was more about his demeanour. He’d spent ages cultivating his own special brand of swagger, a persona that mixed just the right amount of serious with just the right amount of fun. Like almost all human interaction it was a compromise and he liked to stack the odds in his favour with a little flirtation, a little sweet talking.

It became easier over time. Fake it until you make it and all that.

Yeah, Abraham Ford had presence. Even before the military he was the guy people gravitated towards, the guy who told the tall tales round the barbeque, beer in hand, winking at all his buddy’s wives as if his heart was breaking that they were already taken.

Alpha male.

That was what Rosita called him but even she didn’t know how much effort it was, how much work he put into it. But it had it’s benefits.

He spoke.

People listened.

Which was why he was getting so damned frustrated as he stood over the roadmap to Washington. Why he was so frustrated that that damn satellite phone was being ignored.

Everyone else was busy. Busy and paying attention, how he liked it. Rick was plotting out a route for when they left Terminus. Maggie and Glenn were making a list of the supplies they would need. Bob and Sasha were inventorying the guns.

Everyone was listening. Everyone except that damn bowman. Because Mr Damn Bowman never listened when she was around. Because Mr Damn Bowman was so fucking whipped it would actually be amusing to watch if it wasn’t the middle of the apocalypse. Because apparently Lady Bowman had the skills to make Mr Bowman go deaf on the spot. Her superpower seemed to be walking into a room and making all the sense in his head walk out.

It pissed Abraham off. Sure she was a pretty little thing and he knew all about pretty little things, but come on man, get a room or something because this was just embarrassing. He was surprised no one said anything. They all had this overwhelming respect for Daryl, thought he was some kind of boy scout they could rely on. And sure he was, Abraham had nothing against him. Man knew his stuff, well until she was around. Then he knew nothing. Like absolutely nothing.

Abraham had mentioned it to Rosita one night and she’d looked at him incredulous. Told him he was being a moron, they weren’t together. He said they absolutely were and she rolled her eyes, made some snarky comment about how his mind needed to get out of the gutter even though he really hadn’t meant it that way. Apparently, the girls all spoke and no one had even mentioned a hint of anything, not a whiff. There was nothing there. She would know, she said, Rosita Espinosa does not miss shit like that.

He thought of firing her at that point (however you might do that in the apocalypse) because it didn’t feel responsible giving a visually impaired person a gun and putting her behind the wheel of car.

Feminine intuition, his ass.

Usually, he wouldn’t let it worry him so much but fuck, this was important. Daryl was supposed to scout ahead now that they’d found him a bike after all that bellyaching he did about his old one. Hence why he needed the satellite phone, hence why he needed to know how to use it. Hence why it was so fucking important that he listen.

But he wasn’t listening.

Because he was too busy eye-fucking Lady Bowman. 

Realising this and not wanting to piss anyone off - Abraham had to keep reminding himself that he couldn’t order these people around, they weren’t his soldiers - he’d tried every technique he knew to draw Daryl back into the conversation. He’d said his name a few times, made a few jokes, even made a quip about Rosita’s boobs which earned him a sharp poke in the ribs. But Bowman? No, Bowman may as well be at the North Pole for all that he’d heard.

No one else seemed to notice either, that was the bit that really got him. Sure, strong silent type was one thing. He could respect Daryl’s whole “man of few words and he’s said ‘em all” persona he had going. Probably worked quite well for the most part, having a listener instead of a talker. But that didn’t change the fact that right now, right now Bowman. Was. Not. Listening. Because Lady Bowman was breathing. Because Lady Bowman had a pulse. Because Lady Bowman was in line of sight.

“So Daryl, if you wouldn’t mind just picking up the phone…” he said pointedly.

_I talk to the fucking trees._

“Daryl?” he tried again, voice calm, conversational.

Nothing. Nada. Zip.

“Daryl?”

He could almost see the damned tumbleweeds rolling by.

He sighed. This was exasperating and he really was at the end of his tether.

“Look Romeo, I’m pining here too but if you wouldn’t mind picking up the phone.” his voice wasn’t booming, wasn’t loud. Nowhere near as loud as the silence that followed.

Silence that went on so long he started hoping for the second apocalypse.

When he saw Glenn mouth “Romeo” at Maggie and every set of eyes in the room sway from him to Daryl, Abraham considered the possibility that Rosita could have been right and that maybe his broseph personality had been the wrong choice, his quip somewhat premature.

When he felt Rosita’s boot coming down hard on his shin, this possibility seemed even more likely. But that was ridiculous, these people were all ridiculous. It was plain as day what was going on here. As his mother was so fond of saying “he was born on a day, but it wasn’t yesterday.”

The deathly silence, however, that was worrying, as was the nice hue of fire-engine red that Bowman’s face turned, a shade Abraham was sure Lady Bowman probably found quite fetching.

The look that accompanied it was also a little worrying.

“You want to say something to me?” Daryl asked but his voice cracked a little as he did and that coupled with the blush just made this whole thing kind of funny.

“He can speak,” Abraham said approvingly. “he can hear! Thank fuck for that! Was worried about you for a moment there brother. Now listen up you can look at your pretty girl after…”

Another sharp kick from Rosita.

“What woman?” he shouted. “Goddammit stop it with the kicking.”

He turned back to Daryl. This really was ridiculous.

“Ok, Romeo, this satellite..”

“You watch your goddamn mouth sunshine. I ain’t afraid to shut it for you,” Daryl was suddenly in his face, voice a low growl.

And he wasn’t joking. That was very worrying.

That was when Abraham realised that he really, really had been wrong and Rosita really, really had been right. But somehow she’d also been really, really wrong. And he’d just gone and let a really, really feral and really, really surprising cat out the bag and Daryl looked like he was about to kill something. And it wasn’t the cat.

“Daryl, leave it,” Rick was saying, his voice stern. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Yeah, it’s ok,” said Glenn, voice wavering, nervous. “Man’s just trying to get a rise out of you.”

“Man’s gonna lose his teeth. And his stupid ass mustache,” Daryl answered.

That hurt. Abe liked his mustache.

“Just take the phone,” Rick said. “Let’s just do this and try and stay alive.”

There was a second when Abraham thought things were going south. A brief moment when he started to worry that this might end in a brawl and then he’d never get Eugene to Washington.

But then Daryl glanced down, studied his hands and the tension started to ebb from his shoulders.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah alright.”

Scowling, he took the phone, pushed it into his pocket looking around at all of them, gaze resting on Abraham long and hard and not very friendly before he turned towards the door. Lady Bowman stood to the side, those baby blues so enormous that now even Abraham couldn’t stop looking at them

Might be true. Could be that she had superpowers.

“I’m gonna take a piss and go to bed,” Daryl growled as he went.

“Good idea,” said Rick. “Get some rest.”

Rick turned back to Abraham, face unreadable and he knew he’d overstepped some boundary. Knew that this was going to cost him badly down the line. Apparently the Bowmans were untouchable and unspeakable and Mark Twain’s autobiography level of top secret, which made perfect fucking sense in a world when every day could be your last. But regardless he’d gone and poked the bear, pissed Rick’s people off. That wasn’t good. He needed to apologise, find a way to let Rick know he didn’t mean anything by it.

“Look Rick…” he began but Daryl’s voice interrupted him before he could continue.

“Rick, you walk the fence today?” Daryl asked, hand against the door.

“Yeah,” Rick answered. “No breaches.”

“Alright.”

“Good night,” Rick called, and Abraham scrabbled to find the right words, words that would heal the wounds and wouldn’t make him look desperate.

And then he saw the small knowing smile on Rick’s face as he glanced over to where Beth stood watching Daryl leave. Didn’t miss the way she smiled sweetly, didn’t miss the look that lasted forever between the two of them and the way Daryl’s fingers twitched when she looked away.

"Yeah, good night _Romeo_ ,” Rick said under his breath.


	2. Smooth

It must have been a hell of a run.

A _hell_ of a run.

Because the amount of shit Rick, Michonne and Carl brought back looked like they’d gone on a shopping spree, the likes of which would have made the Queen of England jealous. Although, come to think of it, Daryl doubts the Queen does, or ever did, her own shopping.

Either way, they’ve found clothes for everyone, blankets, toiletries, gas. And guns. More guns than they’ve seen in a long time. He’s pretty damn sure the Queen doesn’t shop for those.

But the cherry on top - the motherfucking icing on the cake - is the bag of ripe mangoes Rick pulls out of the back seat and even his grizzly beard can’t hide his grin as he does.

Carl’s face is already stained orange, his fingers sticky and Daryl wonders how many the kid’s already had. Fruit is hard to come by. Really hard to come by and in these times it’s almost the equivalent of candy for them. Junk food even. So no wonder Carl has already gorged himself.

And no wonder everyone is eager as Michonne starts handing out the remaining mangoes. Sure they’re all trying to be courteous, trying to be polite but grasping fingers and licked lips betray the nonchalance they’re all pretending.

They have to share. The group outnumbers the mangoes and there’s no way there’s one for each of them. Michonne is fairly indiscriminate in how she divides them up. It really just happens to be who’s standing closest to whom. Maggie and Abraham, Tara and Rosita, Glenn and Tyreese. Eugene gets his own because even when it comes to rationing food he’s a little too weird to pair up with anyone.

They all make sacrifices. Sometimes it’s your life, other times it’s half a mango.

Daryl glances over to Beth. She’s sitting next to him on the ground where he laid out his poncho so she could enjoy the sun, her nose stuck in a book, which she’s obviously bitter about judging by the way she’s been glaring at it. He’d asked her about it earlier and all she would say is “plot development by stupidity”. Yet she’s still reading and he’s ok with her reading shitty books because it means she stays in one spot for a long time and he can linger near her, sit with her, be close to her without actually actively seeking her out and following her around.

Fact is he’s been around Beth a lot lately. He’s pretty sure it’s a conscious decision on both their parts, but it feels almost inherent, instinctual even, the way they gravitate towards one another now. The way she’s always the one to bring him something to eat or drink during the day while he’s walking the Terminus fence, the way she’s the first one he looks for after a run to show her whatever he’s found. It’s usually dumb stuff like a brightly coloured stone or a flower or something, and he feels cheated if he doesn’t find an excuse to go to her the minute he’s back. But he knows that just showing her he’s alive - not bit, safe, unharmed - is excuse enough. It’s the same for him. Checking up on her is as good a reason as any to seek her out and that’s more than adequate for him.

Looking up, he notices Eugene staring at his mango, a contemplative expression on his face as he turns it over in his hands slowly. He glances around, eyes settling on Beth as she’s tucking a torn slip of paper into her book.

Daryl sighs.

_Aww hell no dude._

He’d already asked them earlier if he could share the poncho and Christ, the poncho ain’t that big. Daryl said no, pointing out that there are more than enough chairs around and even more ground where he could park his ass. Eugene had blinked and then said matter-of-factly that he would like to sit with Beth if Daryl wouldn’t mind.

He’d been about to reply that he did mind even though he really didn’t want to give voice to that especially after Abraham and the Romeo incident but Beth had stepped up and told Eugene that all she really wanted to do was read and if he could give her a little privacy she would appreciate it.

He’d actually answered with “as you wish” like he was in _The Princess Bride_ or something and Daryl had to bite his tongue not to call him Farmboy or Dread Pirate Roberts.

And now, well now he is looking for someone to share his mango with and Beth is it.

So when Michonne tosses Daryl a mango, it’s an answer and an insinuation all at once. An answer because it’ll keep Eugene away. An insinuation because of the sly wink she gives him and the way she purses her lips.

This woman. This goddamn woman with her dreadlocks and knowing smiles.

She hasn’t let up. Not since two weeks ago when Abraham called him Romeo in front of everyone. The rest had let it slide. Didn’t notice. Didn’t care. Didn’t want their faces broken or their asses kicked. He didn’t know which but they stayed the fuck out of his business and he liked it just fine.

But not Michonne. _No_ , not her. Up until her and Rick left on this last run a few days before, she still called him Romeo - something even Abraham hadn’t dared to do, instead opting for Mr Bowman which pissed him off because it made him think of Joe but he didn’t press it.

Michonne had no such qualms and was always close at hand with a quip.

Like when he’d fumbled over what to say to Beth after the Romeo fiasco.

His jolted explanation had gone something like, “Guy’s moustache has messed with his head. Dunno why else he woulda said something so stupid or think we’re together. Not that you ain’t … nice or anything…”

He stumbled over his words, most of them getting stuck in his throat while Beth’s big eyes just watched him. Impassive. Accepting.

And then when he’d turned to leave, there was Michonne, arms crossed over her chest, a foot against the wall.

“Dixon, you smooth operator, you,” she said and he thought it might have been loud enough for Beth to hear. So he just flushed red and left, Michonne’s eyes burning a hole in his back.

He hates it. Mostly. Sometimes, there’s a small part of him that doesn’t and he finds that hard to process. But mostly he hates it, especially now when she quirks an eyebrow at him before turning away to hand the last mango to Sasha and Bob.

At least Bob also gets a wink but it still pisses him off.

“Here,” he passes the fruit to Beth as she sets her book down and stretches her legs out in front of her.

“Don’t you want?” she asks.

“You have it.”

“We can share,” she offers.

“Nah, really you have it.” he tells her, glad to see Eugene has turned around again.

“Don’t want you getting scurvy,” Beth says bumping his shoulder teasingly with her own.

“Ain’t a pirate,” he tells her but he likes the way she keeps her arm against his.

“Arrrr,” she answers dismissively. “Ain’t taking no for an answer. You can put that in your buckles and swash it Mr Dixon.”

She has a way with words Beth Greene does.

He, on the other hand doesn’t. He’s yet to figure out how to say no to her. Truth is he’s not convinced it’s any more possible than growing wings and flying to the moon for a day trip.

So, his mouth quirks on the one side as he takes the mango back and starts slicing it with his - no her - hunting knife, trying not to mess too much juice on the poncho beneath them. As usual she’s thrown him off a bit. Idiot. He should be used to it by now because it’s all this damn girl ever does, but she still surprises him. Like when she pulls his rag out of her belt and lays it between them so he has somewhere to put the mango pieces.

“Was wondering where that was,” he says.

“Was wondering where my hunting knife was,” she answers.

“ _My_ hunting knife,” he tells her. Damn girl forgets that once upon a time it was his.

“ _Our_ hunting knife,” she concedes. “And _our_ rag.”

He tries to frown at her but can’t so he just says “Yeah ok, our rag.”

“And our hunting knife.”

He tries to suppress a grin but can’t so he shoves a slice of mango into his mouth.

It’s sweet and delicious and he’s suddenly very glad Beth thought it so important to save him from scurvy.

“Happy?” he asks when he finishes and she nods, selecting a piece and taking a bite. Her eyes close and she chews slowly and he can see how much she’s enjoying this little treat.

He likes the way her jaw moves, the way her throat muscles work as she swallows.

He likes seeing her happy.

He also really likes the way a drop of the juice clings to her bottom lip, the way it shimmers in the afternoon sunlight. And suddenly he wants to put his lips there, taste it

_(taste her)_

and kiss it away. Feel her mouth under his. Gentle but firm.

But when she looks at him, he falters. Wasn’t like he was going to do it anyway. Definitely not with everyone around, although the look on Eugene’s face may be worth the crap he’d get from Michonne or Abraham.

Instead, he looks pointedly at her and touches his bottom lip to show her where the droplet is.

She grins, wiping at her mouth and inexplicably missing the juice entirely even though there is no way she should have.

No way on earth.

He shakes his head and she tries again. Misses again.

He sighs.

“Here,” he says licking his thumb and before he knows what he is doing, he’s wiped it across her lips, the drop now clinging to his dirty skin hovering like a tiny kaleidoscope in the sunlight before he raises his hand to his mouth and sucks it off.

It’s a kiss of sorts. In its own way.

Her eyes go wide and it takes a second before he realises what he’s done, before the colour rises in his cheeks. And he feels like there’s too much air and too much sun and too much earth in the world and not enough at the same time.

And then he’s embarrassed, looking away from her and her pretty eyes, her open mouth, her lips that a second before he was touching like he could, like they were his.

He chances a glance around the camp - even the tips of his ears feel like they are burning - but everyone is too interested in their own mangoes to notice. Everyone except Michonne who’s smirking at him.

He sees her mouth something in his direction but he turns away before she’s finished because he knows she’s saying “smooth”.

He doesn’t know where to look so he stares at his poncho, at a red thread that has worked itself loose and is starting to pull and he wonders if someone here knows how to fix it. Beth fixed her father’s pants once but if she starts fixing his clothes, it’ll just add more fuel to the flames and soon they’ll be sitting together at every meal and talking about their favourite movies (hers is _The End of the Affair_ , his is _Die Hard_ ) and figuring out if they’re cat or dog people (for the record, they’re both both). Yeah, all this. You know, just like it is now. Or something.

“Have some more,” her voice is light, she seems to have recovered well enough, or maybe she didn’t notice at all but she’s already tucking into another piece and, God’s honest truth, when he looks at her there’s another drop of juice clinging to her bottom lip, shining and plump and insanely arousing.

Well, she can deal with it now. He doesn’t care if it stains her nice clean top or its pretty brocaded neckline. Doesn’t care if she walks around with juice on her face all day and becomes a magnet for every bee and fly in the whole of Georgia. Doesn’t care if Eugene offers to lick it off her face for her (except of course he does … and he wouldn’t put it past Eugene either).

But no, her mango juice, her face, her problem. No way he’s going to try that shit again. No way he’s going to let anyone - his mind says _Michonne_ \- see. Let her keep it on her face all the way to DC. Let Maggie tell her or something. He doesn’t care. Never did actually. Earlier he was just trying to help her out, really. What happened had fuck all to do with him. Because he doesn’t care that she now has more juice on her face. He really doesn’t. Cares less that she has juice on her face than he cares about the rivulets of juice cascading down Abraham’s front, or the fact that Glenn has big orange stains on his once white T-shirt. See, he really doesn’t care.

And then she gives him a shy grin and wipes at the drop with the back of her hand. She gets it this time, a thin trail of juice already drying against her wrist.

And he’s not sure he can ever forgive her.


	3. Nice Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was done for Bethyl Week on Tumblr. The prompt was Red. It's a little fluffy, a little angsty and a little silly.

He eats alone. Ain’t the first time, won’t be the last but he’s disappointed anyway. Disappointed because he grabbed a good table, disappointed because he waited for a half hour before giving in to the hunger pangs. Disappointed because he’s now finished and there’s no excuse to wait here any longer.

He glances around at the other half -rotted picnic tables at Terminus. They’re all empty and everyone is already inside, a dying fire the only indication that a meal was served. He knows he needs to get moving, but he still feels a little cheated. Sure, there’s breakfast tomorrow, but breakfast is always a rushed affair with people scampering off as soon as they’ve had a bite or a cup of coffee, if they’re lucky. And lunch, well lunch is usually done on the go. There’s no time to linger, no time to relax.

He sighs, this is starting to get ridiculous. _He_ is ridiculous.

Ain’t like it’s carved in stone, ain’t like they have a date or anything dumb like that. Ain’t _official_. But still, they usually sit together at mealtimes. Sure, they make like it’s coincidence and sometimes she’s so good at it he actually believes it is. He doubts he’s anywhere near as subtle.

After all, there’s always a place open next to Eugene. Always. And it’s usually one of the best seats. Outside in the shade, under Terminus’ solitary tree. But he pretends he doesn’t see it and finds her instead. Doesn’t matter if they’re full on in the sun or squashed together at a table too small for either of them. Doesn’t matter if she’s with Maggie or Glenn or Rick. In fact that makes it easier. Less obvious. Can always make like he wants to sit with them and she’s just along for the ride.

But still, he likes it best when they’re alone. Or when the others all leave to go inside or do chores and they find an excuse to linger. When they get bogged down in the intricacies of something irrelevant, both knowing they should move on but neither willing to break the moment.

She does most of the talking. But he’s good with that. Always preferred listening. Gets you into less trouble. Because when you talk you say stupid shit. Stupid shit like “keep playing”, stupid shit like “maybe we can stay a while”.

Stupid shit like “you know”.

Even so, he finds himself speaking more when she’s around, telling her snatches of his childhood, heavily edited stories because the unabridged versions are still too painful to share.

One day maybe.

Not now.

Not today.

But despite the shortness of his stories, the lack of punchlines, the way she has to know he’s glossing over the darker details, she listens attentively, not interrupting, waiting him out so that he wants to say more, tell more.

Wants to show more.

And that ain’t half the problem.

One night, while they’re sitting outside by the fire (they got rid of the grill and every scrap of food that wasn’t in a tin in Terminus and even some that was) she tells him out of the blue that she likes his tattoos. It takes him by surprise, almost as much as the rush of colour to her pale cheeks when she realises she’s said it aloud. Sweet little Beth Greene likes his ink. He smirked at her then and changed the subject. Smirked because she shared more than she intended, because her face was so flushed she couldn’t meet his eye. Changed the subject because he suddenly wanted to show her all his ink, all his marks, not just the ones on his hands and wrists. Not just the ones he chose to put there.

But tonight she’s not here and after today and those goddamned mangoes when he nearly fucking kissed her in front of everyone, he’s not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.

She throws him off Beth Greene does. She throws him _way_ off.

He’s not sure what that means, he’s not really sure how it happens. But he goes with it. Why, he doesn’t know, but he just does because somehow the way he feels when he’s around her - his sweaty palms, his pounding heart, his dry mouth, all shit that sounds really unpleasant when you think about it - is like a fucking addiction and he’s pretty much both compelled and powerless to chase his next high.

_Nice_ , he thinks to himself. _Comparing sweet Beth Greene to a drug habit._

_This is why you can’t have nice things._

He stands, tossing his paper plate stained with his pork and beans dinner into the trash. He needs to walk the fence. It’s sturdy here at Terminus, but they need to check it every day. Don’t want any weak spots. Don’t want any breaches. Not that they plan on staying but better to be safe than sorry. And sure, they haven’t found a lot of walkers in the area, but truth was they didn’t think there were a lot of walkers near the farm either.

And look how that worked out for them.

He’s reaching for his crossbow when he hears the door behind him open and he knows its her. It’s not his skills. They’re good and he knows her walk, her movements, the way she sounds when she brushes against something. But it’s not that. It’s not tangible. It’s more the way the night feels heavier and lighter at the same time, the way the air is charged with her scent and yet calmer for it. The way his heart falls apart and gets put back together in a split second of sweet and utter agony.

“Oh,” she says as he turns to face her. “All done?”

It’s his imagination. It must be. But she sounds disappointed. Like maybe she was hoping he’d wait for her, that he didn’t have other stuff to do and they could have another of their long nights.

“Yeah,” he says although all he really wants to do is sit down again with her. “Gotta walk the fence.”

She nods and a lock of hair falls across her eyes. His fingers flex as he imagines tucking it back into her ponytail but her hand gets there first. She’s exasperated, irritable even as she shoves it away, pulling it hard and fixing it impatiently behind her ear.

He sighs inwardly, he’d never have done it like that.

“I brought you these,” she’s holding a pile of folded clothes out to him. The solar lights they’re using aren’t that great and don’t illuminate much but he thinks it shirts and jeans. Some socks and vests. He hopes it’s not underwear, not that he couldn’t use some but … yeah.

“It my birthday or something?” he asks.

“No,” she says sitting down as he takes them, grabbing a lukewarm tin of chopped tomatoes. “Rick and Michonne just brought back a stack of clothes today and I grabbed some for you before Abraham took them all.”

He could see that happening. Not that Abraham wanted them for himself. He was as content as anyone to wear the same shit day in day out. He just wanted to give everything to Eugene, whether it would fit or not, like he thought the extra layers meant less chance of being bit or something. He still bitched whenever he saw Eugene out of Glenn’s riot gear, even when they were inside the fences and it was baking in the Georgia heat. Daryl got it though. Abraham was trained to get jobs done so it wasn’t much of a surprise how seriously he took this. What he didn’t get was how someone who’d been through the ringer as much as Abe, someone that smart and that honed couldn’t smell the bullshit. No way Eugene had a cure - the guy probably only realised the world had ended when his mom stopped visiting him in the basement or his online buddies missed their _World of Warcraft_ dates.

Eugene didn’t have a cure. This whole DC trip was a wild goose chase.

Didn’t matter though, he supposed. They had shit else to do.

“Daryl?” she asks and his eyes snap back to her. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Ain’t worth that much,” he turns his attention back to the clothes because he knows if he looks at her too long he ends up staring and he really doesn’t want to stare. Not again.

Beth’s picked well, she always does when it comes to this sort of stuff. She knows his sizes, his tastes - for what they’re worth. She’s even cut the sleeves off two of the four shirts and found him a belt without one of those big dumbass buckles that he hates. He grins over at her but she’s turned away and doesn’t notice while she’s eating. She’s obviously hungry, attacking the tomatoes fiercely and shovelling them into her mouth greedily.

There is underwear but he finds he’s not really embarrassed.

“What’s this?” he asks pulling at a piece of red fabric wedged between two pairs of jeans.

“Hmmm?” she’s not paying attention, concentrating on getting the last remnants out of the can, and he thinks he should have really let her use his paper plate instead of just tossing it.

He grabs at the cotton and holds it up. A red sundress. Small, shortish, with spaghetti straps that tie behind the neck. He’s embarrassed to say that he knows this fabric is called Broderie Anglaise on account of his Ma having a fucking obsession with the stuff before she died. Figured she was going to start her own sewing business. Make a fuckload of cash and take him away from his old man.

Yeah, it didn’t work out.

“Beth?” he says and she turns away from her tomatoes to look.

“Oh that,” she says and she sounds a little embarrassed.

“It’s cute,” he tells her. “I’m just not sure it’s me.”

She chuckles. “Sorry. That was meant to go in the rag pile. Michonne thought I’d like it but we’d really get better use out of it if we cut it up for bandages or cleaning rags. Must have gotten mixed up with your stuff by accident.”

She may be trying to sound light but he knows her well enough and there’s more than a hint of sadness in her voice, a hint of longing and disappointment as she looks at the dress, her spoon of tomatoes hanging in the air, forgotten while she goes somewhere in her head he can’t follow. No doubt to happier times, times when she could have worn a pretty dress like that, to go out with friends, a boyfriend maybe, like Jimmy or even Zach if she’d met him before everything went shitty. He suddenly has a very clear vision of Beth Greene in another life, Beth Greene in this dress, hair pulled back into a loose plait, strappy sandals on her feet, out on a date with some college boy who’s studying to become a doctor or a lawyer. Maybe an engineer. Or maybe Beth would end up with some hipster artist or a writer and they’d live in New York and splash paint on their apartment walls. Maybe she’d stay at home and boys would come a courtin’ and need to be vetted by Hershel before they were allowed in. He doubts it though. He knows Beth well enough to know that when she wants something she gets it and sisters and fathers and annoying older brothers don’t get much say.

So many possibilities, so many broken dreams. It makes him sad and happy at the same time and he doesn’t really want to analyse it because either way he ends up being a dick.

“C’mon,” he says trying to break her - them - out of this spell. “Walk the fence with me.”

He drops the dress onto the table and holds out his hand to her, big, rough, calloused. Dirty. Too dirty for her dainty clean ones. He thinks she’ll say no, beg off and tell him she has stuff to do. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t even hesitate, doesn’t falter as she replaces the spoon in the tin and twines her fingers through his own. Soft, smooth, refined, like everything about her.

And nothing about him.

Even so, there’s something that makes him rub his thumb across her wrist. Maybe it’s still the lingering disappointment from earlier when he watched the mango juice dry there, maybe it’s because he likes how delicate she feels, even though that only exacerbates how awkward and clumsy he is. Even though it makes him stumble and wear his heart on his sleeve. Even though it makes him anxious and giddy at the same time.

Drug addiction indeed.

Why Daryl Dixon can’t have nice things.

She stands and he knows this is the moment he should let go, but he doesn’t and her fingers tighten a little in his, so he leaves it. Goes with it while his heart flops around like a drunk teenager. Doesn’t think on it too long, too hard, too anything. Just accepts her hand nestled in his and hoists the crossbow over his shoulder.

“Ready?” he asks.

She nods.

“Got my hunting knife?”

She rolls her eyes, “ _Our_ hunting knife.”

His mouth quirks and he hopes she can’t see in the bad light. Of course it’s theirs.

Everything he has is hers.

It’s still hot as they walk the fence. It’s not really even summer yet but the sun has been baking down the past few days and the heat lingers in the earth, the air, on their skin. It’s also quiet, no cicadas, no crickets - not yet at least. No buzzing flies, although he suspects the fact that they dumped all the meat lying around had a lot to do with that. His stomach churns a little at the thought and he’s glad Beth wasn’t here to see all that. Wasn’t here to live out those days of sheer terror in the boxcar. As much as he missed her, as much as he doesn’t believe in a higher power, he sends up a little thank you every day that she wasn’t here for that.

The stink of death isn’t too bad here either which is a surprise because he thinks of all the places in the entire state of Georgia, this is the one that has probably seen the most death since the turn. Not the prison, not Woodbury. But right here, where the tracks meet.

He tries to stay alert as they walk. Looking for weak supports, holes, a build up of walkers. But the fact is all he’s really aware of, all he’s one hundred percent certain of is her small hand in his, how it’s soft and smooth while his is clammy and gritty and how even that isn’t enough to make her pull away.

“This afternoon…” she starts and he looks at her frowning.

“What?” that came out a little too aggressively, harsher than he expected and he sees something flare in her eyes. It’s like they’re back at the cabin and he’s being a dick again.

Her mouth hardens a little.

“Just wanted to say it was nice,” her voice is lower now, a little defensive.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. He hopes it sounded dismissive. Nonchalant. Maybe even a little confused but not confused enough so that she feels the need to explain. Funny thing is he doesn’t want it to be any of those things.

“You can do it again,” it’s a whisper, one he wants to ignore and wishes he could.

“Beth, don’t,” he tells her.

He’s not ready to talk about it. Not ready to unpack it and look for hidden meanings or scratch below the surface. He still wants to cling to the notion that all he did was wipe juice off her face and that that was something he’d have done for anyone.

Well, except Eugene.

And Bob. He’s still pissed at Bob.

But, when he gives it a moment, when he lets himself, he can still remember the feel of her lips under his thumb, the hint of her taste mixed with the tang of mango juice in his mouth.

“Ok,” she says simply but her fingers tighten around his as if she’s scared he’s going to let go now. He ain’t though. He can’t. Can’t let go any more than he can make those angel wings on his back into real ones.

They walk a little further, he kicks at one of the fence’s supports more to prove to himself that he is actually paying attention than to test their defences. She’s silent and the world feels heavy with it. Oppressive.

“You excited about leaving?” he asks, partially to just to say something but also because he wants her to talk, get rid of any trace of lingering weirdness between them now that he’s gone and shut the conversation down.

She shrugs. “I guess so. Be good to be moving, but anyone who actually thinks there’s a cure is living in fairyland.”

She’s sharp Beth Greene, she’s very sharp.

It’s sad in a way, coming from her, the girl who believed that her mom and brother were just sick and a cure was around the corner. Sad that she’s hardened, cynical even.

“Yeah, I know,” he agrees, he throws a stone so that it bounces against the fence.

“Don’t like the thought of you going ahead on your own though,” she says, leaning her head against his arm. “Ain’t safe.”

“I’ll be fine,” he says. “More worried about leaving you in the car with Eugene.”

She snorts, but it’s true. He is worried because Eugene is just weird and clueless and really shit at reading body language or frankly any other kind of language, including you know, verbal communication. He tried to get Beth involved in a conversation about _Skyrim_ the other day by telling her he once played an elf that looked just like her.

“She had big blue eyes,” he said. “And a sword. I prefer elf warriors to the mages, unless of course they’re Dunmer, you know the dark elves, then I play with magic. Do you prefer the Argonians or Khajits for beast races? Or the Orcs? A lot of people think they’re beast races, but they’re actually an elf variant, kind of like in _Lord of the Rings_ …”

Beth’s expression would have been funny if it hadn’t been one of those surreal moments that made the world seem a little bit more wrong than it already was. One of those moments when Daryl truly questioned the stupid ass move of putting them all on the line for this man who knew more about Klingon and ewoks than he did about medicine or diagnostics or viruses or any of the shit you needed to know if you thought you had an answer to any of this.

Beth had tried to beg off, telling Eugene over and over again that she hadn’t really played games, that had been more Shawn’s thing, but it hadn’t stopped him. Started explaining the history of the game, the various characters, the different spells until she’d had to become forceful with him and told him she had stuff that needed doing.

Daryl’s pretty sure Eugene intends to finish the conversation and let’s face it, the confined interior of a car is the perfect setting.

Beth’s less worried though it seems, “I’ll drive with Maggie and Glenn and Tara. Or maybe Sasha and Bob. Abraham’s going to want Rick and Michonne with him anyway. Won’t be space for me in there.”

He allows himself a moment to imagine her with him on the new bike, pressed against his back, her thighs flush with his. It’s a nice thought, but insane regardless. No way that’s ever gonna happen. No way she can ride with him. Too dangerous, too reckless, too stupid.

And yet.

And yet they made a pretty good team, just the two of them, before. A damn good one when he thought about it. There are worse things in the world than letting Beth Greene have your back.

She stops suddenly and looks up at him over her shoulder, her eyes big and wide and blue even in the darkness. He’s always thought she was luminous, with her golden hair and ivory skin, even before the prison fell, even when they only existed in each other’s periphery. Sure it wasn’t like now. It wasn’t this pain in his chest, this ache in his groin, this constant and consistent semi-arousal, which had just become part of his day to day routine. It wasn’t like that then and truthfully it still takes him by surprise that it is now. But he’d noticed her. Her breakdown, the quiet strength that followed, the dedication to Judith afterwards and then … and then “oh”.

And then now.

“Be safe, Daryl Dixon,” she says. “I ain’t gonna say goodbye when you leave.”

“Stop, Beth,” he doesn’t want to think about this. Not on a night like this when he’s here alone with her and his head is semi-clear and he’s not afraid to hold her hand and let her lean against him.

“I mean it. I ain’t gonna even think about losing you again.”

“You didn’t lose me Beth,” he says. “You ain’t gonna lose me.”

She’s quiet, studying him, fingers tightening and then loosening in his own.

“And I ain’t gonna lose you. Not again,” he says and he doesn’t know where that came from because it sounds like a confession and he’s told himself he’s done with confessions.

“You didn’t lose me Daryl,” her voice is a small whisper as it echoes his, so soft he can hardly hear it even in the still night when the only sound is them and the hush of a breeze. “I was taken from you.”

He really doesn’t want to think on that. Not the car, not the night he ran along the tracks. Not the days that followed it, nor the weeks after that. So while he can find the courage, before he lets himself get in his own way, he releases her hand and slides his arm around her, across her back so that it rests on the curve of her waist. She stills as his hand brushes against her skin, that thin line where her jeans and top don’t meet and she looks him square in the eye. He wants to look away but he can’t, so he doesn’t. He just waits and the world waits with him.

And then she kind of melts into him, so he can’t be sure where she ends and he starts and, as she links her arms around his ribs in an awkward sideways hug, it’s without a doubt, the best feeling he has ever had in his entire miserable life.

“Last man standing,” she whispers.

“Stop,” he tells her.

Not that, not now, not in a moment this perfect when he can smell the clean scent of her soap and the hint of her sweat just underneath it, when he can feel the press of her against him, her curves, her edges, her coolness and her heat. When his heart is pounding in his ears, his throat, his head and he knows hers is too. It’s too flawless a moment to be ruined with thoughts of an uncertain future or a painful past.

She just feels too good, smells too good, looks too good to let anything bad in and he wants to touch her, kiss her, create a bubble that they can live inside where nothing can reach them, where they’ll be safe and happy, but he ain’t that brave. Never was when it came to women and girls. Especially not the luminous ones like Beth Greene. Never knew what to do with his hands, never knew what to say.

He thinks of the day Zach died, the day he took the stench of death into her prison cell and she’d ended up comforting him and not the other way around and it damn near kills him.

Her hair falls into her eyes again and before she can shove it away his hand is there, smoothing the wayward strands gently behind her ear, fingertips lingering on the satin skin of her cheeks, before travelling down her neck to rest on her shoulder.

She gasps a little, a short hitch in the back of her throat and he wants to turn into her, give himself up fully to her embrace, rest his chin on the top of her head, while he holds her against him, but his courage fails him and he’s left with his fingers stuttering on the pale flesh of her arm.

Even so, he could stand like this forever, holding her in a clumsy one-armed embrace, while the world and all it’s walkers are quiet and still. While Death still has a long way to go before it finds either of them.

Maybe he can have nice things.

Maybe they all can.

“Why you wanna cut up that dress?” he asks all of a sudden.

She huffs a little into his chest and he can feel her breath against his neck, his breastbone. “It’s silly you know.”

He shakes his head. “No.”

She sighs, “It’s bright red, it’s like a beacon for every walker in Georgia to come after me. Too easy to spot, too easy to see. And it’s a dress. Can’t run in it, offers no protection. It’ll get so dirty, it’s just really impractical and there’s no good reason…”

“You should wear it,” he interrupts because he knows this is more about convincing herself than him. “It’s pretty.”

She stops and looks up, arms still tight around him.

“You really think so?”

“Yeah,” he says but he’s answering a different question now. A question about her hair and her eyes and her smile and her perfect skin and the way her neckline dips a little too low to ignore. A question about why his fingers are rubbing slow circles into her arm and why he’s suddenly grateful for the darkness.

“Can’t run from walkers in it,” she says softly.

“Ain’t gonna be running from walkers today Beth. Or tomorrow,” his voice is huskier than he thought, betraying him more than his body ever could.

“How do you know?”

“You going on a run you ain’t told me about?” _Keep it light Dixon, keep it silly,_ he tells himself even as her hands drop to his hip and slide along the jutting bone.

“No. No runs.”

Somewhere a lone cricket starts to chirp.

“Ain’t going to be running from walkers,” he presses his palm to her waist, to her flesh and it’s smooth and warm.

“What if one gets through the fence?” There’s a small, coy smile on her lips.

“I’d kill it for you,” he’s dead serious. When it comes to her safety he always is.

“I could kill it myself,” she’s less serious, but her hands are firm on him and her breath is warm and damp against his neck.

He pretends to consider this. “Get walker guts on your pretty dress.”

“What if … What if there’s a fire and we have to leave quickly?”

“I’ll save you a space in the car,” he swallows loudly.

“What if I don’t get to the cars before they’re all gone?”

It’s a game now. That’s fine, he’ll play along. She does a better job of keeping things light-hearted than he does anyway. He makes a mental note to himself that putting his hands on her probably isn’t the best way to keep his thoughts focused and honourable.

“Take you on the bike. What do you think girl? I’m just gonna leave your ass here?” he tells her, looking away, across the fence trying to still the thrumming of his heart, willing his body back under control.

"What if I can’t get to the bike in time ‘cos I can’t run in my dress?"

“I’ll carry you.”

“You’ll carry me?” her thumb brushes his hip once. Then again. Smooth rhythmic strokes over his skin that make it hard to concentrate on anything else.

“Did it before, can do it again,” his voice doesn’t even sound like his any more as he looks back at her.

She furrows her brow, considering. Like she’s debating the merits of this idea.

“Serious piggyback or the other one?” she asks.

His mouth quirks. Definitely the other one.

“Sack of potatoes,” he tells her. “I’ll throw you over my shoulder.”

She chuckles and his fingers slip further down her arm and slide up again. And her skin turns to gooseflesh under his hands.

“What if walkers grow wings and fly over the fences?” her voice is almost as husky as his now. A little low, a little breathy, more than a little arousing.

“I’ll aim up, for the sky.”

He will.

He already is.

“What if all the walkers in the world broke through the fences here and swarmed us?” one hand slides off his hip, over his shirt, rests on his belly, fingers splayed and he sucks in a deep breath.

“I’d kill ‘em all,” his mouth is dry and his muscles flex involuntarily under her palm.

“All of ‘em?” Somehow, her hand is against his skin now, no dirty shirt in the way, no scratchy cotton.

“Every. Last. One,” his fingers bite into her arm, her waist, with every word. Harder than he intends. Just as hard as he wants.

She makes a small sound in the back of her throat that isn’t quite a gasp and isn’t a word either.

“All so I can wear a red dress?”

He nods because he doesn’t trust himself to actually form words any longer and suddenly she’s moved - or he’s moved her - so that she’s in front of him and her hands are linked under his shirt in the small of his back where his skin is sweaty and slippery. He wonders if she can feel his scars. He finds he doesn’t care. Leave it for another time. This moment is too perfect to let an asshole like his old man ruin it.

His breath hitches and it’s almost automatic the way his hands both slide over the bare skin of her waist, the way his thumbs brush her belly before he loses his nerve and runs his fingers up her arms.

Almost.

She licks her lips. Her eyes are huge and she doesn’t seem nervous to him but he’s not sure of anything under the heat of his blood surging through his veins. Her hands press hard against his back, nails digging into his flesh, nothing gentle in her grip at all and he knows for certain that she does feels his scars, knows she knows his secrets if she didn’t already. If her daddy didn’t tell her all those centuries ago back at the farm.

His hands are rough on her now, tight, stiff, hard enough to bruise.

For some reason he expects things to go fast, he imagines covering her mouth with his, hard, harder than her hands, teeth knocking together, his hands gripping her hair, holding her tight.

But it doesn’t, not at all.

She’s slow as she tilts her head back, as she leans up to him and plants a lingering kiss on his cheek. It’s almost chaste but her lips are searing and his skin prickles as an exquisite shiver runs down his spine. And then another as her mouth touches his neck, against his pulse, the very corner of his mouth. Their eyes meet briefly as she pulls away, a look that tells him that if he wants to kiss her lips, he’s going to have to be the one to make the move, put himself out there in a way he’s never done before. There’s a defiance in her gaze, a brazenness that scares him a little, like she’s daring him.

She _is_ daring him. 

He ain’t that brave.

Even though in his head he’s already backed her into the fence, his hands already under her clothes, his mouth on her skin, biting down on the flesh of her neck, marking her.

Making her his.

She is already.

His hands twitch on her as she puts her head against his chest, so that he can feel her breath on his skin and she can, no doubt, hear the thumping of his heart.

His arms slide fully around her to hold her, tighter, harder, than he should. He rests his head on hers, eyes closed, breathing in the strawberry and cherry scent of her hair.

It ain’t even a question. Not really anyway.

He’d kill every walker in the world so that Beth Greene can wear a red dress.


	4. Perfect Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly I just want to say thank you all for your reviews. I am going to answer them all, life has just been hectic right now.
> 
> Secondly, this one-shot was also for Bethyl Week, the prompt being _She is the Sunlight_ by Trading Yesterday. I took the line "She is the healing and I am the pain" from that song and went with it. I'm not sure I am 100% happy with this, but it is what it is.
> 
> As always this is a standalone story but it wouldn't hurt to read the others. I have one more of these up my sleeve but I'm not sure if I will finish it for Bethyl week, however I will add to to this fic occasionally regardless. However, I really want to get back to _Burn_ so my plan is to focus on that for a while.
> 
> Thanks again for your overwhelming support. It really is wonderful.

Abraham is at it again, his voice big and booming, a foghorn across Terminus’ courtyard.

“Aw, hell no,” he’s saying. “Hell. No.”

She doesn’t turn to look as she shares a bland lunch of butter beans and creamed corn with Maggie and Glenn, Sasha and Bob. None of them do. Not even Rick who’s shifting down next to them, a tin of peas and a bottle of water balanced precariously in one hand. Abraham’s always getting uptight about something. Always getting others uptight too. Wasn’t anything new really, wasn’t anything to worry about. It was no doubt to do with Eugene, something he’d forgotten or something he pretended to forget to piss Abe and Rosita off. Yeah, she knew it was deliberate. Beth had gone through a phase of passive aggressive rebellion once too. Only difference was she did it when she was thirteen not thirty-two.

Point was though that nine times out of ten whatever Eugene was or wasn’t doing was unimportant, irrelevant, not nearly as big a deal as Abraham made it out to be. And it could easily be fixed without the level of melodrama he liked to put into it.

Nothing to lose any sleep over.

So they ignored it. When you started getting sucked into Abe’s worries it was like a whirlpool you’d never swim your way out of. Just kept coming back round to the same thing. Eugene should have been in DC already, they were all wasting time, too much dead weight (although he never phrased it quite like that - even he seemed to realise the hypocrisy of that statement). Regardless, it made for a few interesting moments between him and Daryl, him and Rick, him and Glenn.

Same shit, different day, different level, different air freshener, Daryl would say. Rick, ever the diplomat, would silently agree.

She eats another mouthful of beans, while Sasha and Maggie tuck into the corn. Butter beans, dull, lifeless, like cardboard. No one complains though, definitely not her, the fact that there’s food is a win. Beggars can’t be choosers and they aren’t starving. Another win.

And the day is bright and there are no walkers at the fences.

All things considered, it’s a good day. Not perfect, not flawless. But good. And she’ll take good.

“Jesus Christ,” Abe swears again.

Maggie rolls her eyes. Sasha shakes her head.

Beth glances over at him. He’s standing now, facing the gates, hands balled into fists, shoulders twitching. He takes a step forward and then stops as if he’s changed his mind and turns to look at her.

Directly at her.

That’s a shock. That’s a surprise. That’s unexpected.

He didn’t usually pay her heed. Not really. Michonne yes, Maggie yes, Sasha yes. But not her, not Beth Greene who he thinks of as some of that dead weight. Not Beth Greene, the extension of her badass older sister, Beth Greene, the one whose bond with both Rick and Daryl cannot be understood unless you’d actually walked in their shoes for the past two years, which he hadn’t. Beth Greene, the girl who made it.

Not just another dead girl.

Truthfully, though what exactly were an ex-marine and a farm girl going to talk about anyway? The weather? The walkers? Food maybe? Rick was right, food really was all any of them ever talked about.

In the few weeks she’d known him they’d had one conversation, one real conversation. It’d been a rainy afternoon, the last of the spring showers before the wetness gave way to the summer heat and they’d all been inside, miserably watching as the downpour outside beat at their fences and soaked their washing. They were all restless, all a little on edge because of a hole in the fence they couldn’t get to and the fact that their food supplies were dwindling and the weather was messing with Rick’s plans for a run.

And Maggie suggested a song.

“C’mon Bethy,” she said. “Sing us something to pass the time.”

She’d wanted to say no, the word sticking in the back of her mouth, while she wished Maggie hadn’t spoken so loudly because everyone was looking at her.

Everyone.

Like Daryl.

She glanced over to him where he sat with Rick in the corner, legs drawn up, crossbow on the floor next to him, aimed at the wall. He didn’t smile, didn’t nod, didn’t do anything to encourage her one way or another. He watched. Waiting for her answer.

Her answer which was still “no”.

There was something very weird about all that, something she couldn’t put her finger on. As if somehow what Maggie was asking was an invasion of privacy. As if Maggie was asking her to do something very intimate in front of a crowd. Maybe it was because the last person she’d sung in front of had been Daryl lying in that coffin, his eyes on her like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at. And that was intimate. She knew it then, she knows it now. It was something just for them, for him and part of her wanted to keep it that way.

But then she’d thought about her dad and how much he enjoyed her singing and how if he could be here with them right now, she’d sing until her voice broke and cracked, until there were no more songs left to sing. 

Whichever came first.

She shrugged. “Ain’t no jukebox.”

And Daryl’s eyes said more than his mouth ever could.

So she sang Lou Reed’s _Perfect Day_ , trying to force the feeling away that she was now doing this for Maggie, for Daryl, for the irrational belief that she could hold onto what was left of her family by doing what they asked. It wasn’t only them though. It was for everyone, even the new people, even Tara, Abraham, Rosita and Eugene. Even though she barely knew them, she didn’t want to see any more death.

She was also tired of losing people.

She glanced to Daryl at the thought, remembering how she’d held him in her cell the night Zach died.

 _Look how far we’ve come,_ she thought. _Look how far. And I ain’t going to lose you too._

So she sung for him. For them. It’d been a good afternoon in the end, a really good afternoon. Almost perfect in fact. Daryl’s eyes never left her, not for one second while she sang, even while he fidgeted with a broken arrow in his hands, even while his leg bounced and he bit down hard on his lip. And when she was done, he was almost smiling. When she was done, she was too.

She thought he’d come to her then. Lord knows, she’d been waiting long enough. So had he, but Daryl walked to his own tune and she knew enough about him to know that when he does - if he does, she reminded herself - it’ll only be when he’s sure. Sure of her, sure of him, sure of everything because Daryl Dixon has no game, doesn’t know the rules and regulations of flirting and courting and dating. He comes right out and says it even when he doesn’t know what he’s saying himself. _You know_.

But it was Abraham who’d approached her, which - to be fair - was an improvement on Eugene always finding excuses to talk. He hadn’t said much, told her that her singing was pretty and that he could also hold a tune once upon a time. Not like her. Nowhere near as good he kept emphasising, but he was ok, his voice wasn’t nails-down-a-chalkboard bad. She’d said that maybe they could sing something together, something they both liked and then he’d called her Lady Bowman and made a quip about how she was messing with his heart now.

And that had been it. Any conversation they’d had since then had been nothing more than a few pleases and thank-yous, maybe a “pass the salt” or a “where’s Daryl”. Never even a “how’s it going” or “good to see you”. As she thought, wasn’t much an ex-marine and a farmer’s daughter had in common.

But not today. Today he’s looking directly at her.

Directly at her, even as he says the words. The words she dreads.

"Mother of Christ Bowman, what the fuck have you done?"

His voice was strangely calm, sure there was an edge to it, but there was always an edge unless he was flirting with one of the women. But the look on his face, the way he’s looking at her, the fact that he’s talking about Daryl is enough to turn her blood to ice, make her swivel around in her seat, follow his gaze.

See.

She doesn’t know what she’d expected.

Daryl had gone on a run alone that morning, looking for medication for Eugene. He had some or other skin condition that was exacerbated by the riot gear Abraham wanted him in and no one bothered to tell Rick and Michonne to pick some up before they’d left on their run a week before. So, tired of Eugene’s in depth description of the look and smell of his rash as well as a foray into the actual underlying cause of it which seemed to involve a lot of pus and other bodily fluids, Daryl had taken it upon himself to go into the closest town where there was a pharmacy and he could find some unpronounceable antihistamines and antibiotics. It was a short run, easy to do alone. He was due back any minute.

She’s looking forward to it. She’s saved his lunch. They could walk the fence again. She’s going to tell him she’d decided to keep the red dress - the one he told her to wear. Maybe he’ll hold her hand again, maybe not and they’ll just talk. Maybe they won’t even talk. Sometimes they don’t need to and the pieces of the puzzle that is them just fit together so perfectly that talking about it just seems redundant.

She doesn’t know what she’d expected.

But it isn’t this.

Except when she let her fears drag her down and it is.

He leaves the gate open as he staggers across the courtyard, barely able to stand, legs buckling and caving as he stumbles, grasping at his right arm, red with blood soaking through his shirt.

It takes her a second to fully comprehend what’s happening, a second to realise that this is serious, a second to realise he’s not going to stand upright for much longer. That he’s wounded.

_Oh God, please don’t let it be…_

And in that second, she’s eerily reminded of how she watched him go down decades ago when they still lived on the farm and he’d come out of the woods wearing a macabre necklace of ears and walker guts before Andrea had shot him. They thought she hadn’t seen it, but she had. She saw a lot of things those days that others wanted to protect her from. There ain’t no protecting anyone from horror these days. Ain’t even really a good idea to try. She’d watched from the porch, heard the sound of the gun, the explosion as he went down, the way Rick had hurried him back to the house, the way her dad had cleaned him up, let him sleep in his bed. She hadn’t cared much then, not in a real sense anyway, she didn’t have an emotional attachment to these invaders living on their farm. Not like Maggie. Not like her dad or Patricia. She was too numb at that point, too numb from what was happening, from her increasing loss of faith in her daddy’s beliefs. Too numb to care.

But now? Now she’s not numb. Not numb at all as she flies out from her seat, pushing past Abraham and Bob as they stand there gaping like idiots. Not numb as she charges across the courtyard, barely hearing Maggie calling to her, barely aware of Rick on her heels. Not numb as she reaches him first, shoving her shoulder under his arm, grabbing him around his chest, as he stumbles, as he leans heavily on her and threatens to pull them both onto the gravel.

Someone is saying his name over and over again and with a start she realises it’s her. Her as she’s trying to keep him standing, her as she’s trying not to cave under his weight, her as she’s trying to find the source of the blood and dreading the moment that she does.

“Not bit…” he grits out between his teeth, his eyes already glassy, his blood soaking through her white vest, the one with the pretty brocade neckline. “Not … bit … Beth.”

She lets out a breath she hadn’t been holding. And it feels like every fear, every worry she’s ever had goes with it. The thought of him being bitten, the thought of him being infected is not one she entertains, not one she allows herself to dwell on but it’s always there, lurking just below the surface of consciousness, sometimes even reaching up tentatively to invade her thoughts before she can push it away, shake it out of her brain like an insidious, sticky cobweb.

But it is there.

Every time he goes out the gates, every time he puts himself on the line she can’t help that feeling that it’s almost inevitable that one day he’ll come back to her with a bite mark, big and round and suppurating and she’ll have to find a way to say goodbye.

Or worse, one day, he won’t come back at all.

But not today.

Because today he’s here. Even as his blood courses down his arm, runs out of his veins and leaves a mess on the tar, the gravel, the weeds, he’s here. Alive.

Not sick.

Not infected.

Not bit.

Not today.

They stagger again, veering towards the fence, his body almost covering hers so that her face is pressed to his shoulder and she can’t see anything as she desperately tries to keep him up, keep him standing. It’s like a dance, a death dance, but she doesn’t know the steps and neither does he and that comforts her somehow. She thinks she feels tears on her cheeks but she can’t be sure it’s not his blood because he’s going down fast, pulling her with him, his hand fisting on the back of her top, grabbing at the cotton so it pulls tight around her throat, over her chest. If he goes down, she’ll never get him up, not alone.

“Daryl…” her voice is strangled and she still can’t see his wound, his arm, but he’s falling now, they’re falling. His legs crashing into hers, his hands grasping at her, at her clothes, her hair, at the air.

And then suddenly the pressure is off her as Rick reaches them and grabs at Daryl’s wounded arm, shoving it over his shoulder, stabilising them.

It’s always been the three of them really, bonds forged separately and together, closer than friends, closer than family.

The apocalypse has a way of putting that into perspective.

Or not.

“I got you,” Rick says. “I got you.”

And it sounds like he’s talking to both of them.

Daryl mumbles something, which sounds like he’s telling Rick off, but she can’t be sure because all she wants is someone to bandage him up, stop the flow of blood, put it back into his body instead of leaving it to drip all over the ground. But no one moves as they stagger back to the tables and somehow this pisses her off even more. Bunch of them waiting around, mouths open, like fish out of water.

“Don’t just stand there, somebody help him,” she half says half shouts the words as they head towards the benches. His arm is slack around her neck and she thinks they’re more dragging him than anything else, but his head is turned towards her, hanging but resting against her shoulder.

It’s Sasha and Bob that move first, which is good because they’re as close to emergency response as any of them have right now.

“Get him inside to the infirmary,” Bob’s saying, as he holds the door open “we can’t do anything out here.”

Sasha’s already on her way, Maggie too, Glenn close at her heels.

“You Stookey, you,” Daryl slurs as Abraham pushes Beth aside to take his arm, yelling at her to go and close the gate. Briefly she wants to fight him, because the last thing she wants to do is let Daryl go, let them take him away, but Abraham is at least three times her size and built like a brick shithouse, so she lets it slide as he and Rick pour through the door, all shouting, a flurry of feet and hands, as they all but carry Daryl to the makeshift infirmary inside Terminus.

Leaving her outside, door slamming in her face.

Dead weight indeed.

 

***

 

She sits outside in the passageway with Maggie and Glenn. She hadn’t allowed herself any time to wallow. They don’t get to do that. She’d locked the gate, good and tight, like she was told and then flung herself through the door after them, ran down the hall only to find the infirmary closed and her sister and Glenn lingering near some fold-out chairs, faces strained, eyes a little too wild.

Abraham is inside bellyaching about something or other and she hears snatches of Rick’s voice and then suddenly the door opens and the two of them come out, Abraham not acknowledging any of them as he stalks away in the direction of the canteen.

She ignores him.

He’s always uptight about something

“Ain’t nothing we can do now until Bob stitches him up,” Rick says, putting a hand on her shoulder. “It’s bad, sliced his arm open real good, wrist to elbow almost.”

She nods, touches his hand with her own and is surprised when she feels him press a kiss to her cheek. Rick knows, she doesn’t have to wonder how. He knows Daryl better than any of them and while she doubts the two of them sit around talking about their feelings and stuff, it seems that Daryl let something slip. Because there’s no doubt in her mind in that moment that she could ask Rick how Daryl feels about her and he’d be able to give her an accurate answer. She doesn’t want to though. She doesn’t want second hand information.

Not about that.

“He’s tough though. Toughest son of a bitch I know,” Rick continues, and it sounds like he trying to convince himself as he sits down on the floor. She gives him a wan smile.

He’s wrong though. Her dad was the toughest son of a bitch any of them ever knew. Even Daryl knew that.

“Bethy?” Maggie asks gently. “Why don’t you come help me with the…”

Her voice trails off as their eyes meet and she shifts down next to Beth linking their hands.

“It’s ok,” she says. “Glenn and I will sit here with you and wait.”

And they do, Maggie smoothing her hair, Glenn fetching tea and sitting with Rick, just as if it were a real hospital.

Beth’s grateful. Grateful that Maggie understands, even if she really doesn’t. Even if she doesn’t really get how Daryl means something different to her than he does to everyone else. They haven’t spoken about this, the two of them. Mainly because there’s not much Beth can say right now. Maggie knows they bonded. Maggie knows they share a connection that’s somehow private, somehow elevated. But Beth doesn’t think Maggie really knows. Really gets how either she or Daryl feel about each other. That’s ok because she’s not that sure herself and neither is he. But no, she hasn’t told Maggie about last night by the fence, last night when his fingers dug into her flesh and she all but whimpered under the roughness of his hands. Or yesterday when her heart missed a beat as his thumb ran over her lips.

She shakes her head. _Stop it Beth. This isn’t the time._

Something smashes inside and she grips Maggie’s hand even tighter. Then she hears Daryl’s voice - _motherfucking cocksucker fuck_ \- and she can’t help but share a small smile with her sister. At least he still has his way with words.

It’s then that Sasha opens the door, she’s exasperated, blood on her shirt, hair messy, a sheen of sweat on her skin.

“Beth, can you come in here for a while?”

She’s already standing, dropping Maggie’s hand and wordlessly following Sasha inside where the coppery smell of blood and the paleness of Daryl’s face as he sits on the edge of a sleeper couch, makes her want to gag and weep at the same time.

Sasha closes the door on Maggie and Glenn and Rick as Beth moves to Daryl side, next to his unwounded arm.

Bob’s kneeling on the floor in front of him, holding a tweezers. He’s stopped the bleeding which is good, tied a tourniquet high on his arm, so that the wound is only seeping instead of gushing like she remembers it from earlier. Although now that she thinks back, it may not have been as bad as that. She’ll be the first to admit she was hardly thinking logically, sensibly.

“Not as bad as I thought,” Bob is saying. “He says he cut it on some glass but he pulled the shard out which is actually the worst thing you can do, despite what Hollywood spent millions trying to tell us.”

He looks up at Daryl, an indulgent grin on his face.

“Woulda thought you’d know better Daryl.”

Daryl tries to scowl, but can’t.

“Unfortunately,” Bob goes on, “There’s still bits of glass in there, which I actually do need to get out before we stitch him up.”

He glances over to Beth. “And Sasha isn’t exactly the one he wants holding his hand while I do.”

She nods. Maybe in another life she would have blushed. But not now. They’re beyond that now. Way, way beyond that.

“Has he lost a lot of blood?” she asks, sitting down next to him on the couch, angling herself so she’s slightly behind him.

“Hard to say,” says Sasha. “He’s still awake and you can lose about 40% of your blood before things get really bad. He tried to stop the flow when it happened but not all that well. It’s not great, but let’s hope it’s not too bad either. We don’t know his blood type or anyone else’s and even if we did it’s not like we have the equip-…”

“He’ll be fine,” Bob interrupts. “I’ve got this.”

Despite herself and her own worries Beth realises she likes these two. The way they balance each other out. Sasha with her cold logic, her realism. Bob with his gentle optimism, his confidence.

“Come on Daryl,” Bob is saying. “This isn’t going to be fun.”

Daryl mumbles something which sounds like a repeat from earlier.

“You Stookey, you.”

And Beth reaches around him and takes his good hand - the left one - in hers, squeezes it tight. His grip though is slack, loose, not anything like the firm way he held her hand last night. He’s weak and that makes her sad because this isn’t a weakness that she can work with. It’s not like the cabin, not like the day she stopped him from falling apart by willing his pieces back together. And then he did the same for her.

You can’t will this back together.

You can only pray and hope God wills this back together.

Even so, she holds his hand as tight as she dares, pulling him slightly so that he leans back into her, his shoulder resting against her chest, his neck a hair’s breadth from her mouth.

He’s easy, compliant, as she does this. Doesn’t put up a fight like he probably would if he had all his faculties and could think straight. Doesn’t seem to notice the look that Bob and Sasha give each other. Doesn’t mind as she wraps her free arm around his shoulder, across his neck and shifts so that he’s pressed against her. At least this feels right, feels like them. She might not have the skills to fix this but going through the motions again, being his support and holding him up makes her feel like she’s in the right place at least, makes it feel like something they’ve done before and made it through to the other side.

No reason this should be any different. No reason at all.

She doesn’t look at his wound. Rick told her enough about it already and it’s too much like hers and that makes her feel guilty because hers was self-inflicted and his was caused risking his life for someone else. And that just brings up too many memories and emotions and right now all she wants to do is focus on him.

So she does, pressing him against her, watching Bob’s expression over his shoulder.

Daryl hisses a little as the tweezers dig into his flesh, pulling out a bloodied chunk of glass and dropping it into a Royal Doulton fine bone china saucer.

Say what you like about these Terminus people, they had expensive tastes.

The next extraction doesn’t go as well and he thrashes around a little trying to pull away, trying to stand. But she holds him. Tight like she did once before, whispering nonsense words in his ear, his hair, dirty and sweaty getting into her mouth as she does. But she doesn’t care. She’ll take him dirty and sweaty, she’ll take him clean and gentle, she’ll take him anyway he decides he wants to be as long as it’s alive. He knows this. He must. It’s like breathing and living and being.

And then despite his apparent weakness he grips her fingers really tightly against the pain. And she lets him.

There’s a lot of glass. A _lot_ of glass. He must have fallen through a window or smashed it with his bare arm. She doesn’t know but it feels like they sit there for hours as he jerks against her, as he tries to ask her questions that he can’t really pronounce, insult Bob with words he no longer has. As he glares at Sasha, as he tries to say something about Merle that just comes out as a series of groans.

She sings to him, _House of the Rising Sun_ , then Pink Floyd’s High Hopes. She doesn’t know why she chose those songs but they calm him, calm all of them, her included. Bob even has a small smile playing on the edges of his mouth as he works.

“Beth,” Daryl grits out as she finishes. “Beth.”

His skin is clammy as he tries to turn in her arms to look at her.

“Hush,” she whispers in his ear, holding him tightly, holding his pieces together. “Hush. I’m here.”

She plants gentle kisses against his skin, just pressing her lips to the space where his shoulder and neck meet and he stills, giving her hand a small weak squeeze.

“Beth,” he says. “Not bit.”

“I know, I know,” she whispers. “Hush.”

“Not bit. With you.”

He is, and even if he doesn’t know it, that’s how he’s holding her pieces together too.

“Yes,” she says and kisses his neck again. “Last man standing.”

“Not standing,” he says and she grins, but his grip on her hand is firmer and he’s stopped fighting.

“Last one,” says Bob as he drops the tweezers and she breathes a sigh of relief, closing her eyes and breathing deeply, the smell of sweat and blood and antiseptic soap filling her up.

She holds him through the stitching and the bandaging. Still whispering nonsense in his ear, still kissing him gently when he starts to fight, tasting the dirt of him, the man of him under her lips. It goes easier than she expected, except for the moment when he notices the rubbing alcohol and tries to give Bob grief about it.

“You have this Stookey? The put you in charge?”

But Bob shrugs him off.

“He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” he tells her as Sasha finishes with the bandage. But he does, she knows he does because he told her about Bob and the veterinary college and then later about Bob and the day Zach died.

She’d been numb about that too at first and then she’d cried a little. And he’d been ok with it and let her.

The dressing is neat and clean against his skin and it makes Beth feel a little better about everything. Like all her fears are contained under that one nice, sterile bandage and that somehow makes them manageable again.

She holds him against her a little longer, leaning her forehead on his shoulder. He might be high from blood loss but she’s buzzing on adrenalin and she waits for it to ebb, to flow out of her veins so that she can breathe properly again, stop seeing the world through this crystalline mesh that clouds her eyes. Fact is though, it’s like her arm is locked in place across him and she’s not sure she knows how to move it. Wonders if she even should, because surely if they just stayed like this forever nothing bad could ever happen to them again?

But when he releases her hand and moves his fingers up to his neck to skim across her forearm in a movement that makes her shiver against him, she relaxes, loosening her grip as she shifts so that he can sit back against the couch.

“Stay,” he asks her, touching her knee.

“Ok,” she says.

Like it was even a real question.

Bob tells him he needs to rest and pulls the couch out so he can. He doesn’t bother asking Beth if she’ll watch him. It’s a foregone conclusion, the only acknowledgement anyone makes is when Sasha brings her a folding chair and her book, the bad one, that she’s only reading because she can’t find anything else. The one about the busty vampire-angel hybrid Jezabella who flies around in impractical clothing looking for men to save and kill at the same time. It’s a very bad book.

A very bad book and she tosses it aside, along with the chair and sits on the sleeper couch next to him, holding his hand in both of her own, kissing the dirty knuckles, tracing the ink on his skin, the marks she likes so much, glad he’s a little too out of it to see her leaky red-rimmed eyes.

They bring him something to eat. A tin of black cherries in syrup and a handful of stale tea biscuits. They’d been saving those for a treat but keeping Daryl alive is a treat in itself, so no one dares say anything, not even Abraham. Sasha tells her to make sure he drinks a lot of fluids and leaves a few bottles of water on a shelf next to the medication.

He struggles with the cherries so she feeds him, sitting next to him on the bed with a teaspoon. It’s an effort because he chooses to fight her, because he’s irrationally angry that he can’t do it himself. He messes and his mouth is smeared with syrup by the time he’s done. There’s still some cherries in the bowl though but he tells her to have them, so she sets them aside.

She moves to the chair.

“You should sleep,” she tells him. “Sasha said it’s important.”

He nods, wiping at his mouth, before lying down facing her.

He’s odd like this, she thinks, the way the fight goes in and out of him. Odd when he’s angry, odd when he’s vulnerable. It throws her a little and she’s not sure what to do with it. It’s like the cabin, but different again. He knew what he was saying then, just not what he was feeling. Or if he did know what he was feeling he pretended that he didn’t. Now, he’s different, compliant. Like his edges are the first to go when things go bad and also the thing he tries the hardest to resurrect.

She suddenly longs for the funeral home. It’s selfish, she knows it is and it’s almost disrespectful to what she has now. The fact that they got their dwindling family back, that most of the people they love are still alive. But she longs for that closeness, the way his edges were smooth, the way she saw what he was like when he was happy, the way he not only let her in through the chink in his armour but grabbed her and dragged her deep inside. The way he was one hundred percent fully committed to her, to them, to finding a life they could live together.

Even if they can be together now she doesn’t know if they could have that again. If he would want that again.

“Stay,” he asks again.

And she nods.

“I’ll always stay with you,” she tells him and she means it.

His eyes flare briefly and then he turns over onto his back, arm across his chest, staring at the ceiling. He’s so pale, so white, so pasty even under his tan. Bob says he’ll be ok, says they stopped it before he’d bled out too much but she’s still worried, worried that tomorrow he’ll just be gone.

Like she was.

Divine punishment for her lie. For telling him she won’t leave him.

She watches him chew his lip, then his thumb, watches him close his eyes, wince a little as he moves his arm. And finally watches him sleep.

But this time she doesn’t leave him. She doesn’t intend to break that promise again. It was bad enough the first time. Lies, she doesn’t like lies. Even when they’re unintentional.

She knows Maggie and Glenn lie to each other occasionally. It works for them, but she doesn’t think it would work for her. No secrets. Not any more. Not when she knows what it’s like to lose him. How many more things would have been left unsaid if today had been the day?

But it’s not.

It’s not today.

And as the light fades and the sun goes down and his breathing is still regular and heavy, she knows it’s not tonight either.

Bob checks in on them, adjusts Daryl’s bandage as he sleeps, listens to his pulse. Sasha and Maggie stop by later, her sister’s brow furrowed in concern and confusion that she knows has nothing to do with Daryl’s injury and more to do with the fact she was sitting on the bed, holding his hand when Maggie came in. Regardless, she lays a kiss on Beth’s head and tells her to wake them up if she needs them. Rick comes by before bedtime offering to relieve her but she waves him away telling him she’ll call him if anything happens at all.

He hardly puts up a fight. She thinks he knows it’s pointless. But he sits with her for a while anyway before squeezing her hand and heading out.

Alone, she reads by candlelight.

The book is still bad.

Worse than she remembered. Full of purple prose and dubious consent and improbable love scenes. Full of bad decisions as the plot lurches drunkenly along trying to simultaneously convince you of the heroine’s intelligence and badassery while having her turn into a shrinking violet every time something goes wrong.

She really hates it. As in really, really hates it.

But she reads because otherwise she just sits and watches him and worries and somehow even Jezabella and her fur bikini and her ice planet is better than that.

But in the early hours of the morning it finally beats her and she tosses it, unable to read another word. The book knocks against the foot of the bed and falls to the floor, pages open. She glares at it and rests her head in her hands.

She tells herself that he’s going to be fine, that Bob wouldn’t lie to her, to them, about that. She tells herself that in a few days they’ll be laughing about whatever he did. She tells herself that she loves him.

She didn’t need to do that.

She knew it already.

She hopes he does too.

“Beth?” his voice is soft, hoarse and she looks over to the bed.

He’s on his side now, facing her, eyes open. He looks better, his skin is dry. He doesn’t look like a corpse.

She pushes that thought away as fast as she can.

She starts to apologise for waking him but he waves it away, patting the bed next to him. He doesn’t need to ask twice and she’s there, bottle of water clasped firmly in her hand.

“How are you?” she asks settling onto the mattress, one leg drawn up under her, the other anchoring her on the floor.

He looks at her.

“A little dizzy,” he says, words still slightly slurred.

“Well at least you can speak now,” she whispers.

He gives her a half smile.

“You still managed to give Bob a hard time though,” she says and he snorts.

“Yeah, I’m a dick,” he says. “When I lose all my blood.”

She chuckles.

“Hungry?”

“Nah,” he says. “Just thirsty.”

She helps him drink some water. They both know he’s capable of doing it himself but he lets her slide an arm around the back of his neck, lift his head so that it’s half leaning on her shoulder, half on her breast as she holds the bottle to his lips. He drinks greedily, the muscles in his throat flexing under his skin as he does.

When he’s done and he lies back down she asks him what happened even though she’s not sure she wants to hear it.

He frowns, pinching the bridge of his nose and then rubbing his hand roughly over his face.

“I was a dumbass,” he sighs. “Walker got the jump on me, knocked me through a window. Couldn’t get my knife, dropped the bow. So there I am fighting with the thing, its teeth way too close and then I manage to roll it off me, but as I do I come down hard on this motherfucking shard of glass, right in my arm. But this geek is still going for it, snapping at me and I ain’t got no weapon, can’t get a grip on it, so I bring my arm down on its head, hoping the glass will cut deep enough to get its brain. It did, but the glass got stuck. That’s why it was out of my arm. Not because I’m the asshole Stookey thinks.”

She closes her eyes. The thought a little too much to endure.

“Jesus,” she breathes even though she hardly ever blasphemes.

“Hey,” he says touching her shoulder briefly. “It’s ok. I’m ok.”

She nods, even as she feels the tears.

“I know,” she gives him a wan smile. “It’s just that if something were to happen to you…”

“Ain’t nothing gonna happen to me Beth, we’ve been over this.”

“You don’t know that. Especially after today. You can’t know that.” She doesn’t like her voice like this. It sounds petulant, whiny even, but she can’t help it. “You’re out there, every damn day and I don’t know when you’re going to come back or if you’ll come back and I just don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”

She thinks he’ll give her some wiseass remark, brush her off and make like she’s making a big deal over nothing. But he doesn’t.

He’s looking at her, his eyes hard, like he’s on the verge of figuring something out but somehow it eludes him.

He bites his lip and tugs on her hand.

“How long you been here?” he asks.

She shrugs.

“Since they brought you in.”

“You sleep?” he asks.

She shakes her head.

It doesn’t matter. He’s worth losing sleep over.

He shifts over on the bed, the invitation clear. And he watches her, watches her to see what she’ll do. And it’s like he’s daring her now.

He is.

But she’s Beth Greene.

And she is that brave.

She is so, so very brave.

She is also that tired. Tired from worry, tired from being strong, tired from the world and its walking dead. And the thought of sinking down next to him, of sleeping with him, even if all they do is actually sleep, is tempting enough all by itself.

So, she kicks off her boots, tosses her sweater and stretches out next to him, resting her head on his chest, arm over his waist. She wants to touch his belly again, feel the hard muscles there like she did last night but somehow just lying here like this, their bodies touching in all the right and all the wrong places is enough for now.

“Thanks for sticking around,” his voice is low, as he maneuvers his wounded arm around her and out of the way.

“Rather me than Bob,” she says. “Or Abraham.”

He snorts. She chuckles.

It’s not that quiet outside tonight. The crickets are out in full force, chirping away and she can hear a slight breeze working its way through the trees, the hoot of an owl but nothing else, no hissing walkers, no talking, no gunshots. Just her and him lying here in the dark, the solitary candle guttering and casting long, insane shadows onto the walls.

Insane like him. Insane like her.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says into her hair. It’s his apology, even if it doesn’t sound like one. She knows how to read him.

Her lips are so close to his neck and she wants to kiss him there again, like she did earlier, but it feels like everything has changed, like somehow her earlier frantic embraces were more ambiguous and understandable then than they would be now. Like pressing her lips to him now would be to cross a line. Although why she feels this way she doesn’t know. Lines are crossed all the time here. Lines were crossed way back in the funeral home and outside that dump of a cabin. Hell, lines were crossed the day Zach died, the way even then he’d been unable to keep his gaze from her naked shoulder, the hint of lust from his eyes.

“I tried to hold you together,” she whispers.

“You did,” he says.

He gets it.

She knows he does.

He kisses her forehead and it’s unexpected and her skin prickles. She knows he feels it as he runs a hand down her arm all the way from her shoulder to her wrist and back again.

It could just be a thank you, but it could also be something else, so she waits, still and quiet, barely even breathing.

And then he kisses her again. Same place, same feeling, lips lingering a little longer this time, like he’s working up to something, pushing ahead a little further, a little more. Waiting for her to stop him.

But she’s not going to stop him. Part of her knows that even if he were to rip every last stitch of clothing off her body right at this moment she wouldn’t stop him. He wouldn’t though, she knows this but there’s a part of her, and it’s not a small part, that wishes he would.

She wouldn’t stop him.

She’d help him, rip his clothes off too, climb him - ride him - right here and now on this halfway comfortable sleeper couch. Anything, anything to prove he’s alive, he’s here, he’s hers. She wonders what he’d say if he knew her thoughts. If it would excite him or frighten him. Probably both, exactly like he’s doing to her right now.

He’s tracing patterns on her arm, circles and spirals, loops and she knows if he doesn’t stop soon, she’s going to have her hands under his shirt again, on his skin, on his belly and she’s not going to be able to stop herself and she’s going to give too much away and she really doesn’t want to because she really, really wants him to make the first move. Although now that she thinks about it, she’s hard pressed now to define the phrase “first move” because in this world it seems so juvenile, because so many of them have been made, and she’s still not sure where it’s at.

She rolls onto her back, just to create a little distance between them, a place where their mouths aren’t so close that she can trust herself not to press her lips to his. Her movement leaves his fingers stuttering in the air. But he barely misses a beat and rests his hand on her belly where her top has been pulled high and tight. He glances over at her, his face serious, a little shy, like he’s asking permission. So she covers his hand with hers, moving it slightly, so slightly, encouraging without being forceful before resting her arm back at her side.

Beth Greene is brave.

Even where Daryl Dixon isn’t.

Where he can’t be.

But still he doesn’t need a second invitation as he thumbs the skin around her navel and then strokes outwards with his fingertips to her hips, to her ribs, stroking over each one individually now that they’re so easy to see, to feel.

She draws in a ragged breath, focusing on his touches, his breath tickling her neck, her ear, on how she wants to put her hands on him but she’s not sure where because he’s like a beaten dog that you want to kill with kindness and only succeed in chasing away.

He kisses her temple, sweet, kind, gentler than she thought him capable of.

And the candle dies, leaving the room in near total darkness, the only illumination from the stars outside, shining dimly through a small window.

“Beth?” he asks, voice thick, low, heavy and she knows the question without him even having to say it.

“Yes,” she answers, her voice just as coarse as his hands on her belly.

His palm flattens against her, hard on her skin, rough fingers spasming. It’s beautiful somehow. Beautiful in the way it reminds her that somewhere she’s still soft, still feminine, still smooth and pretty.

She feels his mouth on her cheek first, warm and damp, a gentle brushing of his lips on her jaw, just under her ear. A shiver runs down her spine and she thinks that if he does kiss her she will go out of her mind because if she can’t deal with the build up the actual thing will shatter her.

But then he moves over her, cups her cheek, his hand rough against her. She can feel his belly half on hers now, the first kiss of their skin, their first embrace. Even though it’s dark she wants to close her eyes, wants the feel of him to fill her up, to overpower all her senses.

It seems like she waits millennia there, on that bed, with him looming over her, the sounds of their breathing blocking out the night, the smell of him, the tickle of his beard against her skin while he wrestles with himself, while he fights the voices in his head. It feels like an eternity. But it’s not.

Because all she has to do is touch his jaw.

Lightly.

Softly.

The smallest encouragement.

The beaten dog.

It’s all he needs.

It’s all he ever needs.

And he moves his mouth onto hers.

His kisses are gentle, wary even. A little clumsy, a little awkward. She can taste the faintest trace of cherry syrup and under that a hint of tobacco as his tongue strokes into her mouth, as their teeth almost knock together while they try and figure each other out.

She’s not worried, they have all the time in the world for that.

It’s not perfect.

But it really is.

It is so very perfect as his hand slides back to her hip, fingers kneading her flesh a little too hard, a little too forcefully, a little too different from his kisses. But she doesn’t care if she bruises, doesn’t care if he marks her, doesn’t care as she gives herself up to the taste of him, the smell of him, the feel of him, losing herself in the wetness of his mouth, the brush of his tongue, holding him to her because she’s petrified that if she lets go, he’ll be gone and this will be a dream and she’ll wake up to a nightmare.

But she doesn’t.

Even when his lips leave hers.

Even though it’s too soon for her when he pulls away, too soon to let go. She can’t see him in the darkness and thinks that’s probably for the best, probably a good idea not to try and read each others eyes and faces, best to leave that for another time when they’re both stronger and surer. Now isn’t a good time, now she doesn’t want to think. And she doubts he does either.

She thinks that’s it and tells herself that she’s satisfied with it. No reason to rush, especially now, but his thumb slips inside the waistband of her jeans, rubbing against her hip, smooth rhythmic strokes. Divine payback for last night, she wonders, as she goes taut next to him, as she feels each brush of his thumb echo through her, through him, through Terminus, through the world.

“Ok?” his voice is barely a rumble.

She nods, then realises he can’t see and makes a small noise which sounds exactly like the one she made the previous night by the fence.

Maybe it’s that, maybe it’s the blood loss, maybe it’s fucking Cupid’s arrow, she doesn’t know, but he turns back to her almost immediately, and his lips are against her neck, trailing wet open-mouthed kisses along her throat, over her jaw, teeth grazing the skin as her flesh goes tight, pebbling under his tongue. Short staccato kisses that she feels all the way down to her toes and back up again.

She doesn’t want to cry out. It’s not that she’s worried anyone will hear, the walls are so thick here she hasn’t even heard Glenn and Maggie and her bedroom is right next to theirs, it’s more that she doesn’t want to spook him, doesn’t want to give him a reason to stop, doesn’t want to give him an exit back to reality.

So she twists her hand into his hair and tugs him back towards her, parting her lips, encouraging him with gentle flicks of her tongue. And she feels the moment that he gives into her, the moment that all her worries ebb out of her body, the moment when she’s suddenly never been more sure of anything in her whole life.

He might be a little hesitant, a little uncertain - exactly how she imagined it - but there’s an eagerness she didn’t expect, an enthusiasm that belies the way he’s been trying so hard to play it cool. A hunger that he’s fighting to keep under control. That she doesn’t want him to keep under control.

Still, he’s slow, his kiss hot and deep, thorough. Not rushed. Not forceful. But not timid either, not timid at all.

She shifts against him, his hand leaving her hip and moving up her back under her vest, fingers spasming on her. Her palm is on his belly now, sliding up his chest, resting against his heart. His skin is smooth, soft under her fingers except for the hard scarified ridges that she knows he’d rather she didn’t touch. They’re both scarred, both marked, and one day, she knows they’ll need to find a way past it if they’re to survive, if they’re to have this. But not tonight, tonight, they can be with each other in the dark, in a room that smells of antiseptic soap and rubbing alcohol, in a world that the good Lord has seen fit to abandon in its darkest hour.

Even that thought can’t really distract her now. Not now, when he’s so sweet and so perfect and his kisses are gentle and thrilling and graceless.

When he eventually rolls onto his back, groaning, she knows they need to stop, so she moves to fit herself against him, hand resting fully on his belly and he holds it there.

“Stay,” he says again.

But she doesn’t know why. Because she’ll never leave.

***

The morning is a little awkward. The disentangling, the exposed flesh, hastily covered, the way he can’t meet her eyes, nor she his. But he still kisses her forehead, strokes her hair and breathes in sharply when she squeezes his bicep.

Her head is fuzzy but he seems better, wolfing down the remaining tea biscuits and cherries and a mug of coffee someone left by the bedside in the early hours of the morning. She says she hopes it wasn’t Maggie but he tells her it was Michonne and seems even less happy about that. Tells her he saw her slip in with a tray, tells her he pretended to be asleep. Tells her there’s no way in hell Michonne will let him live this down now. 

She asks if it was worth it and he’s quick to say yes.

She pulls on her sweater and her boots as she sits in the folding chair. He sits on the edge of the bed looking at the floor.

“Need to take a piss,” he says and she nods as he walks out the door.

She retrieves her book, walks to the small mirror and studies herself. Her hair is a mess, but no more so than it usually is when she wakes up and her mouth is swollen. There’s a small mark on her collarbone and she touches it gently before covering it with her clothes. It’ll freak him out, she knows it will.

This was inevitable, always was. There was no going back after the funeral home, not really, but she hadn’t really thought it through any further than this. And she’s not sure how to pick it up now. Beth Greene’s always had boyfriends, it kind of went with the territory when you’re a pretty Southern belle with big blue eyes and blond hair. But this is different. Daryl’s skittish at the best of times and this isn’t the best of times.

But they’ll figure it out, she knows they will.

She’s about to start clearing up when she hears his voice outside, a low rumble and she edges closer to the door to see who he’s talking to.

It’s Abraham. Of course it’s Abraham.

“Here,” Daryl is saying. “I got your boy’s meds.”

There’s a shifting as she hears the pills being passed between the two of them and silence.

“Look Daryl,” Abraham starts and suddenly she knows this isn’t going to go down well. “It ain’t like I don’t appreciate what you’ve done here, but how soon do you think you’re going to be able to ride again? Because I don’t need to tell you how important it is that we all start hauling ass to DC.”

“Better ask the doc,” Daryl says. “He didn’t tell me shit.”

“Fuck,” Abraham says, his voice irate. “It’s just you know how important this is and now you’ve gone and fucked up your arm and I don’t know…”

“Hey, I was out there for you. Because you bunch of losers don’t know what medication you need…”

“Daryl, I have a job to do. You people are messing with my timeline. You can’t ride now. Do you have any idea how much time we’ve wasted, first looking for that girl of yours and now this?”

She sees Daryl twitch, hands balling into fists at his side, the bandage now starting to stain. And that’s when she snaps. She’s had enough of this, enough of Abraham treating everyone he can use as if they’re his recruits and everyone he can’t as if they’re just some dead weight with nothing to contribute. Tired of the shit he dishes out because they insisted on finding her before moving on, tired of the way he thinks she’s nothing but a pretty face and a physical outlet for Daryl. Enough of his snide comments and dumbass innuendos. Enough of him. She walks through the door and suddenly it feels like she’s back at the prison and Merle and Glenn are fighting over whether to kill The Governor or not.

Abraham ignores her, he always does, but she moves so that she’s right in front of him.

“We get it ok?” Her voice is controlled, no waver, no trembling and she feels eerily calm. “We get that your bullshit mission is top secret. We get that you don’t like being stuck here with us. We get that you think there’s at least half of us that you think you can just feed to the walkers. But we’re family. We stick together. We all have jobs to do. You might not like all of them, you might not think they’re all necessary or as important as what you do. But they are. We need them. And Daryl’s job right now is to heal, to get better. My job is to make sure that happens. You don’t get to push us aside, dump us. And if you don’t like that then head off to DC and we’ll see you when we get there. If we get there.”

The passage is silent for a few seconds after her outburst. Abraham blinks, his walrus moustache twitching. But his eyes are hard and she knows that overstepped the mark, knows that this is probably going to cost them down the line.

He’s gaping again, like he did yesterday and then he shakes his head, turns on his heel and walks down the passageway, muttering to himself.

Maybe shooting a gun off into a closed room would have been a better idea.

They stand there for a few minutes, watching him go. She wonders if this now counts as two conversations.

“You gonna have to pick a hell of a tune to make up for that, Greene” Daryl says touching her shoulder, but he’s smirking as they walk back into the infirmary.

Yeah, she knows.

But she’s not going to lose any sleep over it.

***

Four days later she offers to change his bandage. They’ve left it up to Bob and Sasha until now because they’d be more likely to spot a problem if there was one. But there’s no infection, no glass, the pain is manageable when she can get him to take his painkillers and Bob said it should be fine for her not to herd Daryl to the infirmary twice a day to get a new dressing and handed over a small bag of gauze and tape so he could do it himself.

Except you know, he can’t do it himself, and after almost taping his wrist to his thigh earlier in the day Beth decided to take over.

“Look,” he says as he pulls the old bandage off. His skin is still raw, a long puckered scar running from just below his wrist almost to his elbow. He seems oddly proud of it but it makes her want to cry. He doesn’t need any more scars. He doesn’t need any more marks. He has enough. She once fancied she would heal them, now it just seems like every time she turns around there’s more.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“What for?” he asks and she doesn’t know how to explain that she’s sorry for the scars on his back, the ones she knows his daddy left there, even if he’s not ready to tell her yet. That she’s sorry that the world never saw him as she does, that no one ever loved him like she does. That she’s just sorry that things are still shitty and she doesn’t know how to make them better.

“For this,” she says indicating his arm. “I’m sorry you keep getting marks.”

He takes her arm, the one with the scar and pushes her bracelets up so that the entire ugly line is there for the world to see. She looks away. Too many memories, too many regrets.

"Don’t," she says. "It’s ugly."

“It ain’t,” he says as he puts their two scarred arms together, the heat of his skin against hers as he runs his thumb over her mark. “It’s part of you so it’s pretty.”

For a second she doesn’t know what to say. She has no words, so she leans against him and he turns and kisses her temple. They’re still testing each other out. Figuring this thing out between them. He’s attentive, sweet. Sappy even without realising it. But he’s still wary. Treating her like she’s made out of some fine bone china that he thinks he’ll break just by looking at her too long or too hard. But he does it anyway and even though neither of them have said anything to anyone yet, his long gazes say everything.

"And since there ain’t no one here who can give you a tattoo, we need something to show we match."

“We match now?” she asks, a little incredulous.

“Yeah,” he says and smiles like he’s proud, like he’s just said something clever.

He hasn’t.

It’s a dumb thing to say, so dumb she wants to call him on it. But she won’t because this is his way again. His no-games, no-nonsense, straightforward way of telling her what he feels. _You know_.

But it’s still dumb. Dumb because he doesn't realise the subtext. Dumb even if it’s romantic, dumb even if it’s the confession she’s been waiting for. 

Dumb because even though they both have scars they don’t need them to match. They’ve always matched.

Always been perfect.


	5. Precious Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is my final submission for Bethyl Week on Tumblr. I thought I was done after the last one but this one hit me and I just had to write it. It’s a bit slapdash so I hope there are not too many mistakes. Hope it doesn’t disappoint. This is for the prompt “memory” but that should be obvious from the story.
> 
> I plan on adding to these as time goes by but as I have said I really want to get back to _Burn_.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who is reading and commenting.

“When I was eight, Daddy took me to the winter carnival just before Christmas. It was so cold, so very cold. It even snowed a little.”

She sits between his legs, back pressed to his chest. They’re alone again, dinner’s done, everyone’s inside playing an old battered game of _Monopoly_ that Carl found earlier in the week. Everyone except them. He doesn’t know if anyone will notice, he doesn’t much care if they do.

They still do this. Sit together in front of the fire and talk into the night, watching the shadows grow longer as their hair and clothes become smokier. As together they bare more of their souls much like the way they’ve now slowly - so _very_ slowly - started to bare more of their bodies. 

It’s different though. Different from before, different from when he vowed to protect her and her red dress from all the walkers in the world. Different because now she presses against him, holds his hands and he kisses her skin, whichever inch is closest to his lips.

“So cold,” she says again.

“Maggie shove snow down your jeans?” he asks.

She shakes her head and her hair touches his mouth, fine gossamer strands sticking to his lips. He doesn’t wipe them away.

“No, Maggie didn’t come with. Was just me and my dad. I was sad and he wanted to give me a treat,” her voice still has that lilt in it, the one she gets when she talks about her father. The one that tells him how much she still hurts.

His arm tightens slightly on her waist and she leans back into him as he pushes the strap of her purple vest off her shoulder to press a kiss to her skin.

“Why were you sad?” he asks.

She snorts.

“Because Alan Turner told me he liked Penny Morris more than he liked me because she was prettier.”

He grins against her shoulder.

“Dumbass,” he whispers.

Even though he can’t see it, he knows she is smiling.

“No, he was right. Penny Morris was much prettier than me,” she says.

“Blind dumbass,” he says and she chuckles softly, covering his hand on her belly with her own and twining her fingers through his.

“So Daddy decided to take me out for a treat to make me feel better,” she continues. “We rode on the Ferris wheel and then we drank hot chocolate and ate hot cinnamon rolls. Daddy bought me a stuffed dolphin.”

He grins at the thought of little Beth Greene, face stained sticky, pink beanie covering her unruly hair while she prances around with a stuffed dolphin. Her little eight-year-old heart breaking over a snotty-nosed boy who’s all knobbly knees and missing teeth.

“Just me and Daddy. It was just a day for the two of us you know?” She twists in his arms to look at him. It’s that look Beth gets when she really wants him to understand something, when she really needs to know that he understands all of what she’s saying. That this isn’t just a story about a stuffed dolphin and marshmallow hot chocolate.

He nods slowly, hoping that he does get it. He thinks he does, he thinks he gets Beth Greene on the same visceral level she gets him. In that almost savage place where words aren’t needed and communication is just another form of touch or movement. He thinks he gets it. But sometimes he has to remind himself that even in this world, this new and primal world people need words, words to understand. Even people like him and Beth.

He bows his head and kisses her shoulder again and she watches closely as he does. Closely, like she’s testing him.

He thinks she’ll pull the strap of the tank top back up but she doesn’t and settles back against him.

“I got lost that day,” she says. “They had a Santa and kids could sit in his lap and tell him what they wanted for Christmas.”

“What did you want for Christmas?” he interrupts, fingers skimming her shoulder.

“Alan Turner,” she answers and he snorts.

“That loser?” he asks, shaking his head. “Dunno what you saw in him Beth.”

She giggles and he kisses her neck again, breathing deeply, breathing until he can smell the earthy scent of her under her soap. The musk of her. The Beth of her.

“I saw Santa later out of his costume and with his white hair and his beard I thought he was Daddy,” she continues. “So I followed him by accident, couldn’t understand why he was walking fast, why he didn’t stop to look at me or talk to me. Daddy searched for me for hours and hours, called the police even. He was frantic.”

He nods even though “frantic” isn’t the right word. Bezerk. Devastated. Destroyed. Annihilated. Yeah, those ain’t right either. There ain’t a word for how you feel when you lose Beth Greene. Language wasn't cruel enough to come up with one.

He knows because he knows what it’s like. He knows what it’s like to look for her and not find her. The thought alone chills him and he wraps both arms around her waist and pulls her close, not caring that she can likely feel him, hard, against her back.

“How’d he find you?” he asks, almost scared to hear her answer.

_Did he tear the world apart? Did he kill and maim? Did he sell his soul? Did he break himself? Did he sacrifice himself and everything he loves? Did he beg and plead? Did he steal and destroy? Is that the only way to get Beth Greene back? Seems like small sacrifices. Seems too easy. Seems effortless._

She laughs.

“Santa eventually realised there was a strange little girl following him and brought me to the information desk. Waited there with me the whole time until Daddy arrived. Told him ‘Merry Christmas’ as he handed me over like I was a gift or something.”

_A gift or something._

_No something Beth,_ he wants to say. _No something. A gift. The best fucking gift anyone can ever get._

“Daddy always said that Santa gave me to him for Christmas that year,” she chuckles softly, no idea the effect her words have had on him. “Maggie always said that just because Daddy had been naughty shouldn't mean the rest of them needed to suffer.”

He snorts into her hair and kisses her neck again, watching her skin turn to gooseflesh under his mouth as she runs her fingers over his forearms gripping tightly around her waist.

She’s silent as she rests against him and he knows it’s one of those times that he should say something, but he doesn’t know what and he wishes she’d just keep on talking, keep on singing, keep on running her fingers across his skin, across his ink, his scars.

He remembers that day back at the cabin shouting at her, screaming in her pretty face that he never got anything from Santa Claus. He hadn’t. Certainly nothing like Hershel got that day at the fucking winter carnival. Christmas was just like any other day in the Dixon trailer. His Ma crying and smoking cigarettes in the kitchen, face smudged black with mascara and bruises. His old man snoring on the couch, a half empty bottle of something just about tipping over in his hands, a skin magazine spread out across his chest. There was no food in the fridge, never was. Sometimes Merle was home at Christmas if he wasn’t in juvie and he’d take Daryl out into the woods to the creek and they’d hunt squirrels and cottontails and roast them over a fire in an insane parody of a family lunch. Other times he’d go hungry or steal some scraps from the neighbours when they threw their leftovers out. Mrs Ellis caught him the one year, his hand in her dustbin, remnants of some too-sweet chocolate pudding on his face. She put a plate out on the back step for him that he was too nervous to take until it was cold with congealed gravy. He wolfed it down anyway, thankful. And like an animal, a cat trying to please its master, he’d left the carcass of the next cottontail he shot on her step as a thank you.

She never invited him inside. It was better that way. You don’t let a feral cat into your home. You might feed it and value it because it kills the rats in your barn, but bring it inside and it’ll claw and scratch you, ruin your furniture and piss in the corners.

Unless you’re Beth that is. Unless you’re so fucking good and so fucking pure that even that bad-tempered stray that shreds your arms and legs with scratches, that bites you even as you’re feeding it, seems worthwhile, seems worth taming. Seems worth keeping around and loving.

He doesn’t blame Mrs Ellis. She did what she could. And at the time, to a eleven-year-old boy whose back still stung from the thwack of a leather belt, whose wounds still bled from the bite of the buckle, it was enough.

He sighs silently. Another story he has, another memory he can’t share, another part of him he can’t show. It’s times like this that get him down, times like this that he questions what the holy fuck he’s doing with Beth Greene. What the fuck she’s doing with him and what she thinks he can offer her. Because he sure as shit has nothing.

Not even a story.

“Sorry,” she says all of a sudden.

“What for?” he asks bowing his head to her shoulder again and breathing in her sweet scent, kissing the small dusting of freckles there that he can barely make out in the long shadows. He knows they’re there though. Same way he knows there’s a small beauty mark on the rise of her right breast, a light birthmark in the small of her back. He wonders if he’ll ever get the chance to uncover more of her marks, if he’ll ever truly show her his. He hasn’t let his mind go there, not often at least. It’s tough. Tough with her and her eyes and her hair and her skin. Tough with the way she touches him sometimes, the way she presses against him when they’re alone. She ain’t oblivious, she can’t be. Beth ain’t that dumb and she ain’t that inexperienced either. In some ways he thinks she’s more experienced than him.

Some ways.

Say what you like. Beth Greene is an old soul. He sees that in her eyes too. Clearer than day, clearer than her love for Maggie, for Judith, for Glenn. Dare he say for him?

No, no, he doesn’t dare it. Except all the time, when he’s thinking crazy thoughts and he does.

He kisses her again, finding the courage to let his mouth linger, journey from her neck across her shoulder and back again.

She shivers.

“Sorry, you didn’t have good Christmases.”

He could let that sink, he could let himself travel further down the rabbit hole into the misery that his memories hold for him. But not now, not now when he’s got her and she’s in his arms and letting him put his mouth on her. Although fuck knows why she’s allowing that. Fuck knows why she ever allowed that.

“Was on the naughty list,” he whispers, kissing her ear, trying to keep things light.

She chuckles. “Yeah, Santa knows where it’s at.”

He grins into her hair and she hooks her hand round his knee.

“Thing is,” she says. “Even though it was scary, it still is one of my best memories. Me and Daddy, eating cotton candy and playing on the rides. Daddy holding my hand and telling me that Alan Turner was a fool.”

“See,” he says nuzzling her neck with the tip of his nose, liking the way her breath hitches and that small whimper she makes. “What did I tell you about that Alan Turner? Knew he was bad news."

He feels her laugh even though he can't hear it.

She takes his hands on her waist and he can’t figure out if she’s trying to get him to grip harder or if she’s trying to prise his hands into her own. He loosens his fingers. Let her do what she wants, he doesn’t mind either way but she just seems to need him to flatten his hands on her belly, not hold them balled into fists like he was when he thought about losing her.

He likes it like this, the feeling of her skin through the thin strappy shirt she’s wearing, the way it’s torture that his hands aren’t against her flesh.

He holds her, fingers rubbing patterns into her body, the drag of his thumbs snagging on the thin material of her shirt, the smell of her hair as it tickles his nose, his mouth. The way she’s flush against him and if he moved his hands up he’d be cupping her breasts.

He doesn’t want to think of what would happen then, because in his head, she’s already under him and he’s bearing down on her like a wild animal taking its mate. Marking her.

He wonders what she would think - these visions he has where he’s pawing her, where she’s exposed to him, where he’s kissing her thighs, her hips...

“Don’t you have any like that?” she asks suddenly and his attention snaps back to her. But not before he feels himself twitch against her back. He knows she feels it too. He knows by the small gasp she lets out, the way she only pretends the shift against him, closer to him is a coincidence. By the way every inch of skin on her body is pebbled. By the smell of her. The new musk of her.

“Like what?” he asks, husky, deep, low.

She leans further into his chest, stretching her legs out in front of her and the movement gives him the chance to slide his hands over her ribs until he can feel the undersides her breasts against his index fingers.

She swallows. “A memory, you know? One that maybe started out shitty and then turned out good? Or one that was good and then wasn’t so good but you still think about it?”

He sighs. As much as he loves this, being here with her, his mind relaxed enough not to get in the way of his hands and mouth, this is always the part he hates. The part where she wants to find out more and he wants to tell her more. Where he wants to make her laugh, wants to lie to both of them about his childhood. He won’t though. Lying to Beth Greene goes against some cosmic law, goes against everything he is. Still he wants her to see him as normal. Unscarred. As someone who she can hide her secrets and fears in.

But he can’t because there are too many beatings hiding the good memories, too many nights cold and hungry and angry listening to his parents rock the trailer with their screams and then later listening to them rock it again, the sound of bed springs a chorus as they fucked the day away.

That ain’t no story for someone like Beth. Ain’t no story she wants to hear. Seems wrong to bring it into this space, wrong to let it live between them, wrong to let anything his old man ever did near her.

He looks down at his hands, flat on her ribs, index fingers so close to her breasts that he imagines he can feel their softness, their heat.

 _Yeah,_ he thinks, _that too._

All he’d have to do is stroke up, a mere millimetre, maybe not even that much.

His hands on her breasts. Dirty hands, Dixon hands.

He slides his palms back down to rest against her waist. Better. Decent. He should probably take them off her altogether but he can’t. Even though he should.

Sometimes he imagines that it isn’t easy, that it shouldn’t be this easy sitting here with her like this. Shouldn’t want to share this much, shouldn’t feel so calm despite the red, lust-tinged thoughts in his head. Secrets his body is more than happy to betray over and over again.

But Beth makes it easy.

Always has with the way she invades his space, the way she pulls him out of himself when she knows he needs it and leaves him be when she knows he doesn’t. The way she seems to know his moods, his dramas, his rage and his tenderness.

Lately, he’s been forgetting himself around her. Sometimes he’s already halfway across a room, reaching out to pull her into his arms and lay his lips against hers before he remembers that no one else knows.

Even though he knows they do.

They all do.

Even if no one is willing to say anything yet.

He doesn’t care.

He ain’t gonna walk around like Beth is some kind of dirty little secret he’s ashamed of. He ain’t. Because when he looks into her eyes, when he sees how fiercely she loves him - yes, he'll use that word to describe her feelings, he’s not ready yet to use it for his own - he knows he ain’t ever had anything as pure or as good in his whole life and that he ain’t ever going to have it again.

She makes it easy, she makes him fall into it, into them. Makes it all seem so logical, so natural. Like she fills all the holes he has inside him, how she fixes the broken pieces and smooths the rough edges and somehow - he still doesn’t know how - he does the same for her.

Yeah, he’s going to need to talk to her about that because it sure as shit doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense. This idea that she could want him. Not just need him, but want him. It’s insane. But then again, they’re both insane and he’s ok with that.

The world doesn’t make sense, so there ain’t no reason on earth why he should either.

“Daryl?” she presses, bringing his hand to her lips and kissing each fingertip before putting it back on her, a little higher than it was before.

His kisses her earlobe, biting down a little, just enough to pinch and her whole body erupts into gooseflesh again, this time so fervid he can feel the tiny bumps through her shirt.

He smirks a little into the darkness.

Her voice is low when she speaks.

“Ain’t going to distract me that easily Mr Dixon.”

_Mr Dixon._

Yeah, that gets him every time.

He kisses her shoulder again, letting his beard tickle her, before his tongue darts out to taste the sweat, the salt of her skin. She makes that sound again. The whimper.

Yeah, that gets him every time too.

She doesn’t object when he tugs the purple strap off her other shoulder and starts kissing the skin there. Soft, slow, but firm, letting his teeth graze her flesh as he imagines breaking it one day. Marking her like she’s some kind of territory he’s conquered. He knows that’s ridiculous. Knows it’s primal and that the human race is supposed to have evolved past this caveman thinking, but he can’t help it, even though he knows the truth of it is she’s marked him. Marked him already, way more than his shitty childhood ever had. She marked him that day outside the cabin, marked him with her love, her kindness, her goodness. He knows that when - if, he tells himself, _if_ \- the day comes that they consummate this thing between them, even that can’t mark him like she did that day. It may come close but it’ll never be as final, as irrevocable as her arms wrapped around him while he gave her everything that he was for safe-keeping.

And she has kept him safe.

No one has ever kept him that safe. No one ever will.

Maybe one day he can do the same for her. Do a better job of it than he did before.

She turns in his arms then, her shoulder slipping out from under his tongue, so that she’s kneeling between his legs, facing him.

She strokes his hair away from his eyes, gentle hands across his forehead and he closes his eyes as she touches her lips to his. He’s not wary any more as he grips her neck and holds her there, his tongue brushing wetly against hers, tasting the shot of cheap gin they’d all had with dinner and the hint of the tinned pears they’d shared.

God, he loves this. He can’t help himself, can’t even see straight when she kisses him, can’t speak when her hands are on him. It feels like being high all the time. She is that fucking drug addiction he was so worried about. She probably stands as much chance of killing him too.

Her hands wrestle their way into his shirt, dancing across his stomach, his ribs, moving up to rest on his chest as his hand digs into her waist, hard again. No matter how soft and gentle he tries to be when his hand finds that dip, the curve before the shameless flare of her hips, his mind turns red and his entire body aches for her.

He wants to sweep her up, sweep her up like he did once before. Wants to take her to his room. Drop her on the bed so that she bounces a little before he climbs in with her. Wants to uncover her piece by beautiful piece until he has all of her, laid bare to him, open to him. Wants to put his mouth on her waist, her hips, her breasts.

Dixon mouth.

The thought stills him and his grip goes slack on her as she pulls away, confused. There's a mad moment when he thinks she’ll leave even though she’s never done that. Never left him hanging. Passive aggression ain’t Beth’s way. Never has been. She ain’t prone to tantrums and outbursts either. She’s worse, always wants to talk shit through, always needling, always hitting him with her insight, with the way she sees right through him no matter how hard he tries to hide it.

“You ain’t them you know,” she whispers.

There she goes, Goddamned woman reading his mind. Again.

“Stay who you are,” he says huskily.

“Yeah,” she answers, voice also thick, gravelly. “Not who you were.”

He kisses her again, gently, chastely. Not ready yet to go back to that fiery passion. Not ready to test how far away he’s pushed his past.

Instead he toys with her hair, touches her cheek, her nose, her chin. She’s beautiful in the firelight, eyes bright, hair tinged an orange gold, shadows playing on her skin and suddenly he has his memory.

His best memory, the only one he owns, the only one he’ll lay claim to, the only one he’ll ever want and the one he holds onto every day of his life.

The one he can’t tell her.

Because he can’t tell her that watching her at that damned piano, that eating that white trash dinner of pigs feet and peanut butter is the best damn memory he has.

She’ll think he’s lying. That he’s being a sap. He is, but he isn’t.

_You know._

It’s true.

“Tell me,” she whispers.

_You in the candlelight, you holding my hand, you in my arms, you singing, you and those big blue eyes._

_You Beth, You._

He thinks he said the last part aloud.

He did.

She’s looking at him. She doesn’t look like she thinks he’s lying.

“Oh,” she says.

Confident now he pulls her to him. Confident that he has her, that he found her where little Alan Turner didn’t. Confident that just like Santa gave her to her father, her father in turn trusts him with her. Him. Daryl Dixon.

He grips her hips again as he fixes his mouth to hers, as she turns to silk under his hands.

_Yes, Beth. Oh._


	6. Brave words

“Getting rusty Greene,” he says sternly as the bolt bounces against a rock and flips over to wedge itself into the carpet of pine needles on the forest floor.

She humphs and turns slightly to look at him, frown creasing her pretty features.

“Ain’t done this in a while,” she answers, scrubbing a hand across her forehead, eyes a little glazed, a little droopy. “And I’m really tired.”

“Need you sharp,” he tells her as he bends to retrieve the bolt. He’s tired too though. Way too tired to be out here in the woods with her, under this canopy of trees, sunlight casting dappled shadows on the ground, on the leaves, on her. Not that there’s any place he’d rather be, cos there ain’t, but he just wishes that he was more alert, more focused. He knows there ain’t no one to blame but him.

And her.

Maybe.

Those nights they spend outside in front of the fire, talking, touching, sometimes kissing have gotten longer, later. Those nights where he takes an eternity to run a roughened finger up her bare arm, knowing the exact point at which her skin will prickle and flush, knowing the exact moment that the goosebumps will replace the smoothness, the exact moment her breath will hitch and her voice will crack. Those nights that they sit together, until the fire is dead and sometimes until they can see the sun peeking at them over the horizon, see that faint tinge of purple dawn, before they realise that they should have gone to bed hours ago, that they’ll spend the day exhausted and cranky only to repeat the process that night. Practically, they both know it’s a bad idea. But then him and Beth… well they’ve never been the most pragmatic of people when it comes to each other. In a way he’s ok with that though. Ok with being a little dumb about them.

It never bores him though. Those nights when it just him and just her. When he can touch her and tell himself its chaste, pure. That it’s just a gentle kiss here and there, a whisper, a hand ghosting over pale skin. He knows it’s not though. Knows it can’t be, not when he touches his mouth to that special hollow where her neck and shoulder meet, not when he sees her nipples harden beneath her treacherous shirt nor how the scent of her becomes unmistakable. Unmistakable to him. To her. To the whole world and all its ghosts.

He wouldn’t change it though, not for all the sleep in the world. He doesn’t think she would either. She seems to relish it as much as he does, relish his need, his desire for her, the way his too obvious arousal presses against her back, the way his mouth lingers, a little too long, a little too wet, a little too needy on the skin of her neck, her shoulder, her cheek.

He shakes his head and takes the bow out of her hands to reload it. He knows this is silly. Her being out here with him, practicing. It’s really fucking dumb because she can’t load the bow herself. She’s too small, and her fingers nimble and firm as they may be just ain’t strong enough. Fact is they need to get her her own bow, something built for her frame, something with range that she can load easily. But so far they’ve come up empty-handed. Not like they’ve really been looking though. Abraham’s been more focused on guns and blades. Doesn’t see the point of crossbows. Says they’re slow, heavy, cumbersome. He’s right. They’re also quiet and stealthy, but the big man doesn’t see any value in it.

“Why are we out here anyway?” she asks looking around the woods as he hands the bow back to her.

“Just thought you needed the practice is all,” he says as she takes aim again. “Need someone to watch my back.”

She stops, finger wavering near the trigger and turns to look at him again, lowering the bow.

“Come on Daryl.”

“I’m serious,” he tells her. He is. Kind of. Fact is having her watch his back is comforting. Comforting in a different way from having someone else - Rick, Michonne, Glenn or Maggie - watch his back. He’s not sure why though. It’s a weird feeling through and through because he knows logically it shouldn’t be any different from anyone else he trusts.

She’s frowning again and he’s not sure why she finds this so hard to believe. Tells himself it’s because they’re both exhausted. Because the birds were already singing brightly when they reluctantly parted ways to go to bed this morning. Because he’d been too interested in letting his tongue explore the hollow of her wrist and trace the veins of her arm. Because he liked the way faint blue lines formed a nexus under her bracelets and the way her breath hitched as he’d lapped at it. But even so, even though he knows the lack of sleep has dulled them both, he worries when she says things like this, worries that she didn’t see how much the time they were alone meant to him, starts to think that maybe she didn’t get it on the level he did. Maybe she didn’t see how much he did rely on her, how much he needed her, how much comfort she brought to him and that scares the shit out of him.

They never did finish their conversation. After he found her again they just kind of fell into this thing between them. Just kind of accepted it, took it on as part of them, part of him, part of her. Sure, they have those moments now, their gentle kisses and the not-so-gentle ones. They speak, mostly about the past, or about the future, preferring not to label what they have between them, although he knows a point will come when they have to.

People have noticed. He knows they ain’t exactly been subtle. It’s no secret she slept by his side when he cut his arm open. Even less of a secret that they spend evenings outside together by themselves staring into the fire, his arms fixed on her, his lips exploring the soft skin of her neck and shoulders. He knows every inch of that pale flesh, every freckle, every hollow, every crevice. He knows the feel under his fingers, the taste under his tongue, the way it makes his blood strong and his insides weak.

Yeah, they know, or they think they do at least. Think they have a handle on what he feels inside. Think they get it.

They don’t.

Not really.

They can’t because he’s not sure there are words really to describe this. Just like there ain’t words to describe how you feel when you lose Beth Greene, there also ain’t words to describe how you feel when she’s yours. How you feel when she seeks you out and lets you put your hands on her, lets your unworthy mouth explore her skin. There ain’t no words for that. Language didn’t think anyone would ever need them.

He thinks out of all of them maybe Rick is the one with the best understanding. But then Rick’s always known. Didn’t even need to talk about it really. Rick knew that first night he’d found him and Michonne and Carl on the side of the road under those dense trees, as he played with the pine needles under his fingers. As he let their sharp point pierce his hands and palms because of the distraction it provided from the other pain. Not much distraction though, not much to distract from pain when you are pain, when it’s all you have and you’re terrified that if you let it go, you’ll cease to exist.

Sometimes when he looks at her, he wants to just take her and run off into the woods again. Leave all the shit behind them. Forget D.C. and cures and all the weird crap that has gone down and go back to a time when it was just simple. When they’d live in the forest, live off the land. He’d hunt for them, maybe they’d find a place, she could turn it into a home. She’d have him and he’d have her and that’s all the two of them would ever need. He wouldn’t do it though. The others mean too much to him, to them. He couldn’t expect her to leave Maggie, Judith, Rick. He couldn’t leave them either, but sometimes he longs for those moments, those moments he was free to be himself, that he could test the boundaries with her and know it was only her derision that he would face. Not that he ever had. Not that there was a moment that Beth had ever made him feel the sting of rejection. Even his mumbled confession back at the funeral home… God, what a dumbass he’d been, what a stupid fucking dumbass.

They’d never spoken of it again. He knows they need to, because even though they’re here, even though they’re like this and he can pull her into his arms and put his lips on hers. Even though she’s becoming more brazen with him (yeah, he thinks she holds back more for him than her) there’s a part of him that craves that closure, even if she doesn’t. Or maybe she does. Sometimes he thinks this is her MO, her plan, her game. Holding back to see if he’ll make a move, to see how brave he is.

He _is_ that brave.

“Here,” he says moving behind her, sliding his hand along her arm to position it. “Remember I told you to try not to throw too wide an angle, keep things level.”

“Yeah,” she says turning her attention back to the bow. “I’m just a lot shorter than you Daryl.”

He grins behind her.

“Short ass,” he says, putting his hands on her hips, swivelling them slightly. His thumbs brush the naked skin of her waist as he does and absently he rubs small circles against her hips. She’s so smooth, so very smooth and he always wonders how she does it. Here, in this shithole. How she manages to find whatever soaps and lotions and potions to keep her feeling like silk. Or maybe that’s just him. Maybe that’s just his whipped mind telling him how good she feels, lying to him and all that. Doesn’t matter though. That pale flesh is the best thing he’s felt in a long time.

He adjusts his stance behind her leaning in so he can speak in her ear. Her blue vest is loose against her and he slides his hands a little higher. Tells himself it’s to get her standing right.

It ain’t.

Even she knows that.

"Try for that tree again," he tells her low and close to her ear, his attention already focused on the jumping pulse in her neck, the cover of gooseflesh on her skin despite the heat.

She breathes in sharply, too sharply as she pulls on the trigger. The bolt flies wide and disappears into the woods.

"Greene!" He can’t hide the exasperation in his voice and she eyes him coolly over her shoulder, one eyebrow arched, lips pursed before pointedly dropping her gaze to the tanned flesh of his fingers where they grip at the pale skin of her waist.

"May be a little easier if you weren’t doing your best to distract me, Mr Dixon."

Mr Dixon.

Again.

Gets him, gets him every time. Got him the first time too. And the second. Was the reason he agreed to play that damn game. Something about Beth Greene filthy, sweaty and too fucking beautiful for words kneeling in front of him on that filthy floor of that filthy shack. Big beguiling blue eyes, hair golden like a fucking halo. He didn’t quite realise how completely powerless he’d been in that moment until now. He wonders if that was the reason he’d been so eager to go outside, get away from the possibility of being alone with her, get away from that subconscious desire gnawing at him. Get away from Beth Greene. It’s only now he realises just how fucking whipped he was even then.

He thinks he hears Merle somewhere in his head. _Thought you ain’t nobody’s bitch._

Yeah, he ain’t. Except Beth Greene’s. And there are worse things in the world than being Beth Greene’s bitch.

He follows her gaze to his hands, fingers splayed on her belly, still unconsciously kneading the skin there. Tanned, dirty skin on pale satin. Ugliness against beauty.

Pearls before swine

He shakes the thought away.

"Maybe the next time, we ask the walkers real nice to stop distracting Beth Greene cos her ladyship don’t like it," That’s Merle’s voice though. Merle’s words too and he suddenly feels ashamed. Because the thought of Merle touching her like this, the thought of his hands anywhere near her…

But unfazed, she rolls her eyes and elbows him gently in the ribs.

"My guess is walkers ain’t gonna take the time to feel me up," she hits back and he can’t hide the smirk on his face any more.

She’s right.

So right that he’s about to tell her the only thing walkers are interested in is eating her but he stops himself. It hits too close to home in too many ways.

Implications and all that…

"Gimme the bow Greene," he says releasing her to load it again thinking once more how ridiculous this actually is but knowing he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

When he hands it back he stands close enough to feel the heat of her skin but deliberately keeps his hands at his sides.

"Again," he says.

"Demanding," she grumbles hoisting the bow. He can already see her arm is too slack and she’s not accounting for the slight breeze of the day but he leaves it, waiting for her to pull the trigger.

"Think I can’t hear you criticising?" she admonishes and he chuckles.

"Check your arm," he tells her and she adjusts, muscles taught, the fine hairs of her forearm glinting golden in the sun.

It’s better. Not perfect, the bolt is still going to fly wide, she’ll miss the tree, but not by much. He bends down so that his head is level with hers. His intention to study her view but he’s suddenly wildly distracted by the dusting of freckles on her shoulder. They’re faint and closely spaced. Angel kisses his Ma would have said. Angel kisses because she’s so lovely that when the angels saw her they wanted to kiss her. He’s not sure about the angels but the desire to put his mouth on her is strong.

That part he gets.

He swears though that wasn’t the reason he’d brought her out here. Wasn’t the reason he took them to this secluded spot away from all the others, away from the world and its walkers. He had just been so pissed with Abraham who’d spent the day bitching about delays and Daryl’s arm and how the virus could be eradicated by now if they hadn’t kept running off on wild goose chases. Wild goose chases like looking for Beth, like saving a teenage girl, like fucking around saving lives when they could be out there doing something important. Something important like saving lives. It was Rick who’d put a hand on Daryl’s arm, firm, solid. He wasn’t even exactly sure it was to hold him back, wasn’t sure Rick wouldn’t join in if he decked the guy, but in the end Daryl had just left. Let Abe bellyache by himself, let’s not have another argument about Beth which inevitably came down to a childish “you ain’t the boss of us”. Let’s not rehash the same shit over and over again. So he’d stepped outside into the courtyard to clear his head, to breathe in that hot, dry Georgia air and that’s when he’d seen her, exasperated and annoyed, as she tried to get Judy to sleep while Eugene followed her around doing his best to engage her in a conversation about some or other video game complete with fire ants and killer crabs.

It had been enough to make up his mind on the spot. Wasn’t that he was jealous. Wasn’t nothing to be jealous about but Eugene got under his skin in a way even Abraham couldn’t. Thing was he got Abraham, understood where the asshole was coming from, why he acted like such a douchebag. He didn’t like it but he got it, respected it. Eugene was a whole other can of worms. A can of worms that smelled a little of desperation and a lot of bullshit. They all knew it. Wasn’t a goddamned single one of them that was fooled by his awkward demeanour and vague answers. Even L’il Asskicker went from her normal cheerful self to a wailing ball of snot and tears when Eugene was around. Girl had his number. Girl had him sassed and for some reason that made him proud.

So he’d taken Beth’s arm, pulled her aside like he had so many years (or was it months? Weeks? Days?) ago when Lori died and told her they had stuff to do. That he was worried she hadn’t been practicing.

She hadn’t.

She knew that.

They both did.

It wasn’t important.

But it really was.

Because it was important to practice. So very important. And no, nowhere here where the tracks met was good enough. It had to be out there. Out there in the woods. Out there where he felt like him and she felt like her. Out there where they’d found and lost and found each other over and over again.

A quick word to Rick, a kiss for Judy and a raised eyebrow from Maggie and they were gone, out through those ragged terminus gates, where dreams came to live and then to die.

 _Those who arrive, survive_ , he remembers the mantra.

Spoiler alert. It’s a lie.

Or was it? Beth was here, he was here. They were all alive. Alive and raring to go. Or not. Fact was he didn’t want to stay here but he could. Could stay wherever Beth was because despite the blood that stained the ground here, despite the horror they’d endured, despite everything, if Beth was here, it was home. And that’s all that mattered.

So he led her back into the woods, away from the living and the dead, back to what they knew, what they understood, what made sense in his cluttered mind, even if he wasn’t sure it made sense in hers. Away to a place where he could tell himself that they’ll head back to the funeral home in a minute or two, where that stupid mutt would be waiting for its dinner, where Beth would play the piano and he’d lie in the coffin and listen to her sing. Watch how the candlelight plays off her face, her hands, think about how easy it would be to invite her to lie next to him. How easy it would be to fall asleep with her in his arms, her slow breathing a gentle rhythm that would lull and thrill him.

He glances up as she releases the trigger. The bolt flies true and hits the tree wedging itself squarely in the bark and the ridiculous desire to fist pump the air bubbles up inside him. He doesn’t though. Fist pumps were from before, from days when Merle would take him out and teach him how to hunt. Times when Merle showed him that if he was going to eat he couldn’t rely on his old man to bring anything to the table. Couldn’t rely on anyone for anything.

"You ok?" She asks, snapping him out of his thoughts.

He blinks.

"Yeah."

He looks between her and the tree.

"Good shot Greene," he tells her and she grins. And despite his dark thoughts his mouth quirks.

"Told you I’m getting good at this." She says triumphantly handing the bow back to him.

"Yeah, after the fifth try." He grumbles good naturedly.

"Well it’s easier when I ain’t got someone being distracting and all," she teases as he retrieves the bolt.

"Yeah," he says. "But I ain’t kidding. When you’re out there… There ain’t no askin’ for quiet and patience Beth. You know it."

“Yeah, I know it,” she tells him. “Just some people can be real jerks about it.”

He knows she’s teasing, knows this is how she flirts, knows she doesn’t really want to practice and neither does he, but the thought of going back to Terminus just yet is not something he even wants to entertain.

“You ain’t gotta make up excuses to spend time with me you know?” she says as he walks back because she can - you know - read his thoughts or something. Because he’s a fucking open book to her, because she somehow knows him from the inside out and the outside in. Because it breaks the laws of the universe to keep anything from her.

“Excuses huh?” he says. “That would you think?”

“We both know this bow is useless to me unless you’re around to load it,” she takes a step closer to him. “And we both know, you ain’t done nothing but distract me since we’ve come out here.”

She rests her hands on his hips, thumbs chasing over the jutting bone, prickling his skin and sending his mind to dark places it shouldn’t go. She’s not wary any more, she doesn’t bother with the niceties, with pretending that touching him through his clothes is an option. She goes straight for his bare skin, straight for his heart, straight for the man he tries to hide under too many layers of clothing and tough talk.

He could never keep up the act for her. She never believed it anyway.

She moves in closer and despite the heat of the day, despite the sweat beading on her brow and dark patches on her vest, he can smell her soap, a heady combination of rosemary and sage. Earthy, wanton, primal. He wants to ask where she got it but he doesn’t really want to know, wants to rather lose himself in her scent, her eyes, her body.

When she leans in it’s instinctive to press his lips to hers, instinctive to let her wind herself around him, drop the bow, grip her waist hard, maybe a little too hard, before running his hand down that brazen flare of her hips, the plump curve of her ass. Maybe he shouldn’t, maybe he shouldn’t let this happen, tell her they need to head back, they need to practice, they need to do anything but this. But the warmth of her mouth, the sweetness of her form and the way her eyes are eating him up, sucking him in, fucking him as surely as if they were both naked and her thighs were flush with his sides, makes him a little crazy and before he knows it, she’s backed him into a tree, the sharp bark biting into his back, marking him, marking him like he’s marked her and they’ve marked each other and this world has marked them both together.

The taste of her fills him up and empties him out, like it always does, the smooth stroke of her tongue hot and wet against his making him grip her a little tighter, a little meaner, a little harsher. He always tries to be gentle, to be soft and sweet, but part of him suspects that she likes this more, she likes the rough of him, the brute of him, the rage of him. There’s something wicked in the way she bites at his bottom lip, something decidedly challenging as she sucks at his tongue and grabs at his shirt until her hands are both on his belly, plotting a steady course up his breastbone, fingers firm and sure and he wonders if she knows how she turns him to jelly, how he becomes a hot mess under her touch. He used to think he could hide it from her, used to think that she wouldn’t know, that if he remained stoic and gruff, she’d forget all about it. Forget about the funeral home, forget about him, forget about her. Forget about “you know”.

Forget about “Oh”.

She didn’t. Even if they don’t talk about it much. He knows she didn’t. And he knows that somewhere she is aware of what she does to him, that a part of her relishes the effect she has on him.

And yet, he’s never felt so safe in his life.

Because when it comes down to it, there’s something so comforting about Beth, something so real and pure and perfect. Something about knowing there ain’t a mean bone in her body, ain’t no lies or betrayal or manipulation. It’s a first for him really. First time that love hasn’t been tainted, hasn’t meant giving up part of himself, hasn’t meant taking on shit he doesn’t need.

And yeah, he’s willing to call it love.

In his mind at least, if nowhere else.

He lifts his hand from her ass to her hair, twisting the messy ponytail around his hand, fist hard again the back of her head as he licks at her teeth. The desire to flip them round, so that he can press into her is strong, raging almost but he doesn’t, because if he does, he knows he’s lost. He knows that’ll be it and it’ll be seconds before he’s stripping her off, before he’s on his knees, before he’s asking permission to bury his head between her thighs. Begging permission to make her come, wanting to learn how, know her secrets and hear her crying out for him, just for him.

He wonders what she’d say, if she’d be surprised, embarrassed even. Or eager. If she’d grip his head and pull him to her. If she’d encourage him, beg for more. If she’d let him taste her, eat her, have her. He gets his answer from the subtle change in her scent as her lips move to his neck, teeth scraping his skin, tongue lapping at the tanned skin of his jaw.

“Now who’s bein’ distractin’?” his voice is husky, deep, so low he almost doesn’t recognise it. And he feels her grin against him, hands sliding down his chest in a slow, languid movement that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, makes his knees go so weak that he starts to think she is the only thing keeping him standing.

Wouldn’t be the first time though. Sure as hell ain’t going to be the last.

“Ok then,” she says and her voice sounds thick as she gives his neck one last kiss that’s more of a devilish lick before taking a step backwards. “Why don’t you show me how to shoot that crossbow of yours, Mr Dixon?”

He grins at her even though he feels the loss of her presence keenly, even though he’s cold in the void she leaves behind.

But she’s coy as she moves away, swaying her hips subtly, swaying them like she did that day her foot got caught in that damned bear trap, and he doesn’t miss the flirtation underpinning her words. It scares him and thrills him but he finds himself walking towards her anyway although he’s not sure if it’s to lay his lips on hers, put his hands on her or simply to do as she asks and show her what he means about distractions.

In the end he opts for the latter, crouching down on the ground, pine needles pricking at his knees. It seems the best option, the safe option. He doesn’t know why though. Why when he’s exhausted and aroused and barely able to focus on anything but the taste of her in his mouth.

“Ok Greene,” he says. “Arm firm…”

She nods but he can see the grin tugging at the corner of her lips and it pisses him off and excites him at the same time. He rolls his eyes.

“Keep your eye level with the bolt…”

He hears her shift down behind him, feels her hands settle on his hips, her breath near his ear, the brush of her breast against his arm. He wants to kiss her again. Knows that’s her plan. But this ain’t about that. He has something to prove although he doesn’t know why.

“Now there’s a breeze today. You got to account for that. Bolts ain’t like bullets. Wider margin for error,” his eyes are tired but he can smell her again. Sage, rosemary and heady musk, the hint of sweat. She moves closer and the wind picks up strands of her hair, lifting it and blowing it over his shoulder where it tickles his jaw.

“Then you gotta hold steady, don’t rush it,” he’s told her all this before. Told her before the funeral home, before the piano and the white dog, before the white trash brunch. Before “Oh”. Wanted to tell her more but didn’t know how.

Still doesn’t.

Still kills him that he can touch her and kiss her but the words elude him, the words are so hard to find. She knows though, he knows she knows. Ain’t no way she can’t.

“And then you squeeze the trigger slowly,” his finger flexes and he breathes out trying to ignore her closeness, her presence, the fact that he could turn now and bear her down onto the forest floor and kiss her and touch her and….

“I think you should sleep in my room from now on,” she says next to his ear and the bolt flies wide, through the canopy, lost forever.

He tries to take a breath. But it’s like her voice sucked all the air and all the sound out of the world. Like she quieted the breeze and the birds, the insects and the gentle rustle of the leaves. Like the universe has stopped while it waits for a sound, a word, a roll of thunder, anything, anything at all so that it can breathe again, draw life back into it’s earthy lungs.

Oddly, the first thing he registers is that he’ll need new bolts, that he’ll need to make them, that he’s low on tips and he doesn’t know where he’s going to find any. And then that her hands are still on his hips and that’s still the best feeling in the world because her hands are warm and smooth but also firm and squeezing him just a little too tight. Another moment tells him he’s still breathing and that his heart is pounding a mile a minute from where it now sits in the depths of his gut.

Thinking about her words though, what she said - _what he thought she said_ \- that takes him a few decades, maybe a century or two because there’s no way he heard right. No way she said what he thinks she did. No way. Because it’s madness but he can’t imagine what else she could have meant. Can’t think what he misheard in that sentence to make it make some kind of sense.

“Daryl?” she asks, voice low and he realises he’s still crouched, one knee down in the dirt, bow still aimed at nothingness, jaw clenched and shoulders taught.

He blinks and she takes the bow out of his hands, puts it on the ground and shifts to crouch in front of him.

“I really think you should,” she whispers. “I really do.”

He’s not sure if it’s the realisation that he heard right or the gentle way she touches her palm to his face, but when he meets her eyes he feels like he’s suffocating. Like suddenly the world doesn’t make sense any more, not that it ever had. But now, now in the world where the dead walk and the end is not the end and just a rancid beginning, where you kill your own and turn into a feral creature to survive, even the rules they try and live by are disordered, wrong, stupid. Thing was he felt this way once before. Only once though. When he sat down at the crossroads after running all night, when he cried his heart out over a girl he thought lost to him forever. The world didn’t make sense then, it felt wrong in its very fabric, it’s very existence.

And now this is the same. Exactly the same and yet, exactly different too. Because while it makes less sense than chasing a black car down an empty highway, it also makes perfect sense. Such perfect sense that it hurts and makes looking at her impossible and also the only thing he ever wants to do.

“Daryl?” she asks again.

“I can’t sleep in your room Beth,” he tells her but he doesn’t know why. Because it isn’t his voice or his thoughts or his mouth saying those dry words. It can’t be. Because he would never say no to something like this. Never say no to her.

“Why?” she asks and her voice has that same twang as it did when she asked him to drink with her the first time back at the cabin. Accent heavy, eyes big, hair a mess.

“I can’t be sleeping in your room Beth,” he says again but it’s still not his voice. It’s still that other person’s voice, that impersonator trying to sabotage him and her and them and everything that they’ve managed to save.

“Why?” she asks again.

“It’s… it’s not…” he tries but is distracted by the wide blue of her eyes, the way her hair frames her face and that goddam dusting of freckles on her shoulder and how all he wants to do is put his mouth there again.

“Not what?”

“Beth, we can’t…” his thoughts are a mess. Jumbled and briefly he’s ridiculously angry that she’s brought this level of confusion into the woods, into the one place that the world seems sane.

“We did it already,” she tells him firmly. “Slept side by side so many of the nights we were alone and…

“Beth,” he takes her wrist, moves her hand from his face traces those blue veins he got to know so intimately the previous night. Likes the way they look like thin rivers leading to a lake. A lake he could drink out if forever. “Beth, we ain’t alone no more.”

"So? Daryl we can’t spend every night in front of the fire, getting no sleep…”

It’s so true, so very true what she’s saying. They’re both a mess, bags under their eyes, minds dull, feeling like they’re in this world but not if it.

“It’s just … we ain’t told the others yet and…”

She sighs and moves closer, shoving him slightly so he sits on his ass on the ground and she can wedge herself into the frame of his legs. That’s always been Beth’s thing. Wedging herself in. Fitting herself to him, moulding herself to him, finding all the holes he needs filled, soothing his jagged edges until they ain’t so rough any more. Only problem is that then she doesn’t leave. She stays right where she is and won’t move on. Not that he wants her to. The thought of Beth Greene anywhere other than by his side is hideous, obscene, indecent. But it’s almost as frightening as the idea that this is ok, that he could have her, that they could have this. That she would want him, him and his scars, him and his clumsy hands, him and his dirty redneck mouth. That she would want him in her bed, sharing her room, her heart, her life.

He’s brave, he just ain’t sure he’s _that_ brave.

And he ain’t sure he’s worth it.

But she’s looking at him, looking at him with those big guileless eyes, her hands now linked around his neck, fingers threading through his too long hair where it brushes his shoulders, where it touches his scars, scars she’ll see if they start sharing a room.

The thought isn’t as frightening as it should be.

“You ain’t gotta earn me,” she says, voice low, serious. “I want you. You don’t need to do anything to make that true, cos it just is.”

He’s not sure what to say and that’s ok, because there ain’t no words for it. Thing is what do you say anyway? What do you say to Beth Greene when she tells you that it’s you? That you’re the one, that you’re her guy, that you’re the one she wants in her bed, that’s it’s your hands she wants on her and your mouth she needs on her skin.

 

There ain’t no words. Why would there be? Ain’t no one ever gonna need ‘em.

And yet somehow he needs them now. He needs those words. Words that don’t exist. So he does what he can, what he knows and wraps his hand around the back of her neck, presses his mouth to hers. Hard. Demanding. Rough. He’s not sure if the plan was just to kiss her or to kiss her quiet but when she climbs into his lap it surprises him. It shouldn’t though. It really shouldn’t because he’d have to be blind not to have seen the new boldness in her, the new need, the new desire. Truth is he thinks it’s actually a reflection of his, a reflection of how much he wants her, wants to be with her, wants to know her.

Know her.

Stupid fucking phrase.

Because he already does know her and if this is the only way he’ll ever know her that’s ok, it’s fine by him.

It’s not fine by her though. Not at all.

She moves fast, pushing at him and in seconds he’s on his back and she’s straddling him, lips hard against his, tongue demanding and forceful as she runs it across his teeth. He thinks briefly that she’s trying to taste him, taste his grit and his smoke, his rage and his calm. He’s ok with it. Ok to let her lick at his mouth, ok to let her take control, ok to give himself up to the maddening rocking motions of her hips against his.

For now.

When he moans into her mouth, she giggles like a naughty schoolgirl, but when his hands sneak under her vest to caress her back, sliding to her sides where he can thumb at edges of her bra, where his rough fingers can snag on the smooth satin her giggle turns guttural, deep … he’d go as far as to call it wanton.

And again he wants to flip them over, again he wants to undress her, bear her to him piece by piece, lick his way down her body, her curves, her edges, her softness and her wetness. but he doesn’t, he doesn’t because then there’s no way to stop, no way to end this if he does. And he knows he’ll go out of his mind before they even have her shirt off.

When she pulls back to look at him, he’s both relieved and disappointed and he pushes himself up onto his elbows just so he doesn’t feel so submissive, although he tells himself it’s to meet her gaze. Her eyes are wide and her mouth open and her breath is coming out fast, faster than his. She’s still circling her hips against him though and he has to put a firm hand on her thigh to still her.

“We should get back,” she says, “You let me know if you change your mind ok?”

He nods before drawing her down to kiss her again and shifting her off him.

And he wonders if his mind was made up in the first place.

XXX

It’s early that night when she extricates herself from him. The fire is still burning brightly and their clothes ain’t even smokey yet.

She tells him she’s going to bed. That’s she’s exhausted and that she’ll see him in the morning, but right now she’s too tired to do anything, be that think, talk or just sit and watch the fire. He wouldn’t have cared though, wouldn’t have cared at all if she fell asleep on him. Woulda stayed there all night again to feel her against him, pressed on him, moulded to him. But she tells him he needs sleep too and even though she knows he doesn’t mind, she does. She tells him she needs him sharp.

And then she kisses his cheek gently, holds him to her for a moment, before heading off, leaving him alone at the fire with nothing but the thought of a cold and empty bed waiting for him.

So he walks the fence even though Abraham is on guard duty, even though he knows that if anyone could turn back the undead herds single-handedly, it’s the big man. But he needs to clear his head, needs to stop the crazy voices telling him that he could go to her bed right now, that he could slide under the covers and pull her to him and fall asleep to the sound of her breathing. But he ain’t gonna do that. Ain’t no way he’s going to her room after he finishes the perimeter check. Ain’t no way he’s going to sleep in Beth Greene’s bedroom.

Except, you know, he is.

She’s still awake when he shifts down beside her. She’s quiet at first but when he reaches across the bed and rests his hand on her naked hip, she moves against him so that his chest is pressed to the hard line of her back. Her ass though, that’s soft against him, against where he’s not soft but he’s not embarrassed, not even a tiny little bit as his lips find the nape of her neck and her skin erupts with gooseflesh.

“What took you so long?” she asks as if this is the most natural thing in the world. As if sliding into bed next to her is something he does every night and this night is no different.

He smiles. He could tell her that wrestling with one’s self takes time, that walking the perimeter while hoping to get rid of your raging hard on and your insane thoughts is time consuming, that knowing there’s someone like her waiting for you to come to her bed is enough to bring the strongest man to his knees. But he doesn’t.

“Got distracted,” he says kissing her ear, hand sliding off her hip and onto her flat belly. “But I’m here now.”

He can sense her smile as she twines her fingers through his.

He puts his mouth to her shoulder, on those freckles and he imagines he can taste them, that he can taste the sweetness of her through those angel kisses.

“I’m glad you came,” she whispers.

Her hair smells strongly of rosemary and he breathes in deeply, as he moves his hand to trace his finger over her naked hip. Her skin prickles again at just the right moment and he worries he’ll come against her like a teenager, come like he thought he would this afternoon in the woods.

“Me too,” he answers and she turns over onto her back, drawing his hand back to her belly. He can just make her out in the darkness, the way her hair spreads across the pillow, the way the dim light from the outside reflects off her eyes, the glint of her teeth, the wet sheen of her lips and the elegant line of her neck and shoulder. Briefly, he considers shifting over her, bearing down on her, if for no other reason than to know what she feels like under him. Not that he’d take it further. Not that he’d undress her, put his mouth on her. Bury his head between her legs like he wanted to earlier on. Not that he’d do any of that. Not that he should even be thinking of this, because he shouldn’t. Not that he should be wondering what she tastes like, not that he should wonder about the sounds she’d make and the words she’d say. He imagines her calling his name, imagines what her nails would feel like on his scars, what it would feel like…

“What changed your mind?” she asks as his fingers glide from her belly under her vest to her ribs, tracing the outline of each until he he brushes the soft curve of her naked breast. She breathes in sharply and he kisses her shoulder again as she turns her head to look at him. Look at him dead on, straight into his eyes, straight into his soul.

And this time he doesn’t mumble something incoherent, this time he doesn’t give her a useless “you know” or a stare that goes on for centuries. This time he traces loops over her skin, this time he presses his lips to hers, this time he says the words he never thought he could.

He can find the words.

This time he _is_ that brave.


	7. Sometimes burning isn't enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An entry for Bethyl Smut Week on Tumblr. Please note the rating change.

_  
_

_Just one touch and I'm on fire_  
_One touch and I'm crying_  
_Because you're so beautiful_  
_Just one smile and I'm wild_  
_One smile and I'm ready to die_  
~ _Beautiful_ , HIM

  


He moves into her room. Officially. Brings all his shit, which isn’t much but he brings it anyway because apparently that’s just how things like this are done. You find someone you care about and if they care about you, you put your stuff together and you lie down somewhere in their general vicinity at night and somehow this means something. And it sounds fucking insane when you put it in those terms but he doesn’t care. It’s good. This is good. This thing they have is good.  

And yeah, they sleep together. No big deal. They share the bed. They lie close and listen to each other breathe in the darkness. He takes her hand and smells the soap on her skin and the shampoo in her hair. And really when it comes right down to it, when he's trying to convince himself that he hasn't actually fallen completely head over heels for her, that she hasn't climbed into his chest, scraped out his heart with her fingernails and run off into the night with it, he tells himself that’s _all_ they do - occupy the same mattress at the same time when they’re at their most vulnerable. He tells himself it’s a little thing. Trivial even. He knows none of it’s true. 

They also kiss; long, lingering kisses that tingle in his chest and then turn to fire in his belly. They touch, deft strokes along her arms, her hips, over her belly; her fingers tiptoeing down his arm, fluttering a little at his wrist and then sliding along his side until goosebumps erupt on his flesh and he has to clench his jaw and ball his hands into fists not to take her right there. Not to push her down into the mattress and cover her body with his, one hand between her legs, the other groping at her breast.

In some ways it’s easy. In others it’s very, very hard.

He’s not even sure why they do this. Why they torture themselves. Some days he thinks it’s all a big game of chicken, other days - most days - it feels just right. This waiting; this slow, burning thing between them that he knows is building up to something wonderful. Maybe neither of them want to be the one to say the words, to push the other over that edge. He guesses that in itself is a bit silly. They’ve pushed each other before. Done it so many times, it just seems like that should be something they do. Losing his shit at country clubs and moonshine cabins and then losing it all over again at funeral homes and cold crossroads with the autumn leaves falling around him. Losing. Losing. Losing. And then finding it all again in that moment he laid his lips on hers on that sleeper couch in a room that smelled of his blood and antiseptic. Finding it again when he found her.

He remembers. He remembers everything.

And it hurts. It hurts beautifully.

He tells himself that they have time. They’ll take it slow. The _should_ take it slow. There’s no rush. This world didn’t give her back to just snatch her away again. Even this vicious dread-filled existence is not that cruel. He’s not sure anything is.

So he sleeps with her, draws her into his arms at night and even though he knows he runs hot, that he’s like a furnace in their bed, she’s a little fire against him, burning hard and bright and he lets her sear him, scar him, watches himself blister under her touch and he never complains.

Sometimes it's so good to burn. 

The others have been good about it. Mostly.

(Well except for fucking Abraham and his fucking walrus moustache that somehow still can’t hide the smirk he always has under it when he sees them together.)

He’d expected shit from Maggie. Expected to see that hard gleam in her eyes, the way her lip curls when she’s mad. He was ready for her. Or so he thought. Because he see-sawed between thinking up ways to tell her to back the fuck off and accepting that he was in all likelihood going to fall to his knees and vomit out his feelings for Beth at her feet and beg her to be okay with it, promise her that all he wants to do is exist somewhere in Beth’s periphery, somewhere in her life and he’d never hurt her and and and… . And apparently that wasn’t necessary. Maggie has ways of surprising people. He figures it runs in the family. 

So instead of tears and screaming and shouting, she’d smiled - a big, genuine smile - and pulled her sister close, held her, and then said that it was about fucking time and Jesus fucking Christ didn’t they know it was the end of the goddamn world and that they needed to get their asses into gear and stop wasting sunlight? And then she shot him a look over Beth’s shoulder, a look that _was_ all curled lip and hard gleam, just like he’d imagined, a look that seconds later evaporated like it was never there, before she pulled him into the embrace and told him that her daddy would have been proud.

Glenn speaks to him after. Asks him if he gets it now, if he understands.

He says he does. He really does. He says the words he knows Glenn is waiting to hear.

“I care about her more than I care about me.”

It’s enough.

He guesses it’s only as weird as they make it.

And yeah, that's not to say he doesn't make it pretty fucking weird on his own. He still infers things. Things that likely aren't there. He listens to the words people choose when they talk to him. He wonders if there's a deeper hidden meaning, if they're trying to say something without saying it. Wonders if they talk about him and Beth with the others, if it's a point of concern and it makes him feel disconnected from the group. But then they don't actually treat him any differently and he’s getting better at believing it doesn't matter, that they have bigger fish to fry than getting all worked up about where he lays his head to rest at night. And if anything he thinks someone like say Carol would be a straight shooter about this if there was anything to say. But so far nothing. Nothing other than a coy smile and her sparkling eyes, a brief touch on the shoulder. 

"She's good for you," Carol said. "She's good for all of us but she's really good for you."

Carol has her demons - lots of them - but it's nice to see her smile.

As for the rest? Well Rick fell into addressing him and Beth as a unit very quickly, before even the night in the surgery where his arm was bleeding and stinging and he kissed Beth for the first time. Before the night at the fence and the mangoes, before even Abe - Abe and his stupid ass moustache - called him _Romeo_. Rick's always known. And he's always known that Rick's always known.

So he pushes it to the back of his mind. He gets to fall asleep next to Beth Greene pretty much every night. He'd take a million surly stares and even more loaded comments to carry on doing that. And he doesn't have to.

Somewhere he hears Merle telling him he has a pretty good deal here.

He shuts that shit down.

Merle has no place here, nobody does, not while she lies close, her ass rolling against him and his hands trace the muscles of her arms, the curves of her hip, that lean expanse of her thigh.

She wants more. So does he.

But with Beth it's different. He only gets to give her this once. And while he knows on some level he's being ridiculous and that what they're doing is ridiculous and when it comes right down to it, the idea that this one time - this one first time - is some kind of sacred thing that you have one chance to get right is really fucking ridiculous, it still worries him. A wonderful, delicious anxiety, but an anxiety nonetheless. It's fucked up, seriously fucked up. And he thinks thinking like that is more than likely going to make things harder than they need to be.

Still though.

 _Still_.

It’s not like there’s anybody he can ask. Not like he can walk up to Rick and start firing off questions, not like he should. And he thinks somehow that would upset Beth. They don’t lie to each other. They don’t. Ever. They’ve made that promise. And that - speaking to Rick or anyone else - well, it might not be dishonest, but the thought gives him the same feeling as if it were and he guesses that’s enough reason not to do it.

And yet somehow it’s still wonderful, this room they share, this little sanctuary she’s made for them in this world of blood and bones, in this place where the living once ate the dead and then they righted that so that the dead once again eat the living. Everything where it should be.

Everything but everything.

Except him. Except her.

So they burn. But sometimes burning isn’t enough.

***  


It happens one night like any other night. Nothing different, nothing unusual. He caught the late shift, walking the fence with Eugene of all people. Four hours of hell. Four hours of Eugene reminiscing about his favourite computer games and bemoaning the fact that the world ended before the new Transformers movie came out. Four hours that leave Daryl more convinced than ever that DC is nothing but a sham, a wild goose chase with a not so wild goose and they’re all sitting ducks. So he’s grateful when it’s over, when he sees Sasha and Bob coming towards them, grinning like idiots and holding hands. He nods to them, even Stookey who he’s decided deserves a second chance and isn’t too bad as long as he stays away from the juice.

And then he’s gone. Dog tired and looking forward to sinking into bed and Beth’s arms and staying that way until the sun wakes him up. She’ll be asleep, curled around a book, a candle flickering on the nightstand, making the room smell of wax and flame.

But she’s not. She’s still reading, some hardback tome of a novel resting on her knees, a skinny little tank top - pale blue - clinging to her.

She’s engrossed and barely spares him a glance as he walks through the door.

“Still awake?” It’s rhetorical but she nods.

“Book’s good,” she says.

“That’s a first,” he says shutting the door and moving to the edge of the bed to undo his boots.

“It is,” she says, slipping a torn piece of paper between the pages and setting it down turning towards him and god, that little top is so fucking see-through it seems altogether pointless. “No more sexy vampires from outer space in fur bikinis.”

He snorts.

“I’m serious,” she says. “This is good. It’s not like it’s high literature or anything. I’m not reading Proust. It’s like a fairytale made real. Retold, you know? For adults. With the bad parts left in.”

“And you like that?” he asks having disentangled himself from his boots and reaching for his socks. “The bad parts?”

“Yeah,” she says pulling her knees up. “You gotta have the bad parts Daryl. You gotta. How else would you know where the good parts are?”

_How else would you know where the good parts are?_

(God, sometimes he loves her so much it feels like it crushes his bones into tiny shards and then grinds them to dust before it puts him back together again.)

He nods and reaches behind him to pull his shirt over his head and dump it on the floor, stretching to work the kinks out of his back and neck and rolling a shoulder until he hears a crack. It's not that he feels old, he doesn't, it's just sometimes his bones betray him, much like the flecks of grey in his beard.

His hands go to his waist and while he’ll never be able to define exactly what it is that changes, something in the air changes, becomes oppressive, awkward even; the sound as he unsnaps his belt, louder than it has a right to be, the gentle slap of the leather as it lands on the floor with the rest of his clothes almost echoing. He’s painfully aware of how quiet she's gone behind him, that he can’t even hear her breathing and that she's watching him, her eyes like twin lasers boring into him, through him. 

It’s not the scars. He knows this. They’ve done the scar thing. He’s shown her, they’ve spoken about it. They’ve cried about it too and that’s over now. It’s done. He doesn’t flinch away when she touches his back, when she traces her fingers along the lines, the raised ugly ridges left behind by something even uglier. He’s safe with her. He knows this. He always has.  


But this isn’t about scars. This is something else. Something he doesn’t truly understand and is not sure he ever will. This is admiration or as close to it as he can imagine someone feeling for him. This is about her liking what she is seeing. It's about her holding her breath and seeing him as something more than he thinks he is, more than he imagines himself to be. 

It’s happened before. Obviously it has. He knows she enjoys it at when she touches him at night and her fingers glide gently over his skin, trace the lines of his muscle, his hips and belly before he has to push her away or face going out of his mind. She enjoys him. She enjoys what she finds under her hands, what she feels and what she sees. He knows it on an intellectual and somewhat abstract level because that’s just how things are. But he doesn’t truly get it. Can’t fathom that she sees him the same way he sees her. As something beautiful. As something treasured. As something she’d like to uncover and learn.

And now she’s looking at him like that. Her gaze heavy, travelling down to his waist, hips, his ass and back up again so that the hair on the back of his neck stands up and his face burns.

“Take a picture,” he says, voice husky, thick, injected with none of the wry wit he was going for. “It’ll last longer.”

“Don’t want a picture,” and her voice sounds fine, confident, playful even. “Picture won’t do the real thing justice.”

And again it slams into him. This realisation that he’s not only being loved, he’s being lusted after. 

_Wanted_.

He turns to look at her over his shoulder, hair falling into his eyes. Even so he can see that her lips are wet and shining, slightly parted, notices the way her breath hitches and how her hard little nipples poke through the absurdly inadequate material of her vest.

“Stop.”

But she’s not stopping. Not even slightly. Not even a little bit.

She _is_ rising to her knees though and that little blue top, now falling off one shoulder, ends high above her waist, exposing an expanse of pale flesh, flat belly, jutting hips above the lace trim of her matching panties. Panties which are just as woefully inadequate in hiding anything.

And then she has her hands on his shoulders and her lips against his neck, pressing little kisses, soft and chaste and yet not chaste at all, into his skin. 

There's a moment when that anxiety flares. But it's only a moment and it's gone, because he wants this. Not only because he doesn't want to deny her but because he wants her too. Has for longest time. Has before he even knew he did. And if he fucks it up, so what? He's safe, they can try again tomorrow, the next day, a week, a month from now. Whenever they goddamn want.

And she’s a line of fire down his spine, the cotton of her clothing so thin, he can feel the rub of her nipples and the heat of her cunt on his back, against his scars. And he wants her. He wants this. He wants everything.

Everything but everything.

He breathes her name. _Beth_. His voice is more strangled than before, which is interesting because he didn’t actually think it was possible.

_Beth. Beth please._

He’s not sure what he’s asking for. What he’s begging for. 

_Be gentle with me Beth. Be rough. Be hard. Be soft. Be anything you want._

He doesn’t know. He hasn’t got a clue because the blood is pounding in his ears and behind his eyes and then rushing south to his cock and that’s okay because she knows, because she’s looking out for him, for them. Like she always has, like she always does.

_Be careful Beth. With us. With this._

And she is. She is careful, but she’s also not. She’s running her wicked little hands down his chest, over his nipples, stopping to squeeze before tracing the bumps of his ribs, and settling on the sharp bones of his hips, where her fingers flutter nervously against his abdomen. And now her mouth is open and wet and burning him, her tongue running along the corded muscles of his neck, down across his shoulder and back again and he groans, loud and long, grateful that these rooms are solid and soundproof.

_God Beth. My girl._

He wants to turn, he wants to take her in his arms, put his hands on her, touch her through that silly little top, hands on her breasts, her hips, running up her thighs until he can feel the heat of centre, so close, so very close, before he loses his nerve and pulls away. He wants to do all this and more because he wants to burn. Burn her like she’s burning him. 

But she doesn’t let him. 

“This is for you,” she whispers in his ear. “This is only for you. And for me. This is because I want to. I want to touch you and make you feel good, I want you to know just how much I want you.”

He moans again. It’s too much. Her hands and her words. So he lets her do whatever she wants. Because who the fuck can say no to Beth Greene? Who would want to? 

And then she’s kissing his hair, his temple, his cheek, her lips catching the corner of his mouth as it pulls into a crooked smile and then lower to the scruff of his beard, along the line of his jaw and all the while her deft fingers are rubbing slow hesitant circles into his belly, spiralling lower and lower until she loses her nerve and works her way back up his chest, back to his nipples and his breastbone and the hard lines of his collarbones.

He gives in. He can’t help it. Doesn't want to. He lets out a sigh and leans back against her, against her heat and her steel, against the softness that’s strong enough to catch him when he falls. And he’s going to fall, he knows he is. And it’s going to be a wonderful journey.

Her hands drift down again, unhurried, taking the time to press against the starburst scar where an arrow went through him, against the long ridge of rough skin that curls over his hip and across part of his belly where that one time his asshole father decided to forgo the stick and the switch and use a goddamned piece of rubber hose that had been lying in the sun all the day. So drunk, so high … and his aim was always so fucking good that the hose snapped down hard against Daryl’s side and wound itself around him, taking his skin with it, leaving a trail of blood and later a gnarled gristled line of scar tissue and ugliness.

 _And yet_.

And yet, from the way she’s touching him, touching it, he would swear she doesn’t find it ugly. The act yes. Unspeakably so. Unimaginably hideous. But not the scar itself. Not him. Him and his marks. Him and his ink. That’s not ugly to her.

_You gotta have the bad parts Daryl. You gotta._

And he’d wager that she wouldn’t even consider his scars to be the bad parts either way. 

Her hands dip low again, down his sides scattering goosebumps over his entire body as they come to rest on his hips and then travel to waistband of his jeans. 

He sucks in a breath, hard and sharp as he watches her pale fingers edge close to where he’s straining and stiff against his zip. So close. So very close. Another fraction of an inch and she'd be touching him, his cock, rubbing him through the rough denim. And god he wants that. He wants it so much. He might well go out of his head if it happened - he’s considered the possibility that he could actually die, and no he doesn’t think he’s being melodramatic  - but that doesn’t seem to matter. It seems trivial in light of what he’s feeling right now.

And then she wavers, quivers, slows, stops. No more wet kisses for his neck, no more hot breath on his skin. Her hands tremble against his belly, fingers fluttering. She's uncertain. He finds that somehow comforting. 

Deep breath. In. Out.

Another. 

The shadows from the slowly dying candle dance against the stark walls, making the room seem cavernous, larger than what it is.

In. Out.

Breathe.

 _Breathe_. 

Her confidence fails her and there’s something so hopelessly endearing in that, so wonderfully real and vulnerable as she begins her slow movement back up his chest that he can’t help himself when he grabs her hand in his, squeezing her pale fingers.

“It’s okay girl,” he says, voice low. “It’s okay, I want you to.”

She lets out a little gasp, small and quick, and he turns his head so he can see her, the candlelight flickering on her skin, her eyes huge and luminous.

He twists, reaches for her, pushing his free hand into her hair and cupping the back of her head. 

“I want you to,” he says again and kisses her, nudging her lips apart. It’s awkward but he doesn’t care as she licks her way into his mouth, her tongue hot and wet and rough against his. And he loses himself in her for a moment, forgets everything except the sweet taste of her, the way she’s soft and gentle and perfect next to him.

This is all it needs to be forever. Nothing more. He'd take it and treasure it just as much. Protect it with everything he has.

Breathe. _Just breathe_.

But when she pulls away she’s panting hard and he swears he can smell her. A rich, earthy musk that tells him everything he wants to know about how she feels about him, how much she wants him. And he tries not to get himself too caught up in thinking about how completely and utterly insane it is that this is her and it’s all for him, her blown pupils, her hard nipples, and now, her wet cunt.

“Show me,” she whispers. “Show me how Daryl.”

It’s enough. It’s more than enough and the rumble in his chest doesn’t even sound like it comes from him as he turns fully towards her, framing her face with his hands and drawing her in to put his mouth on hers again. To taste her and explore her and run his hands over her back, under the worn fabric of her top.

_Beth. Oh my god Beth._

But she’s impatient now. Her mouth urgent, her body pressing up against up hard against his, small breasts rubbing against his chest. 

“Please Daryl.”

_Please Daryl._

It's ridiculous to even imagine he could deny her anything.

So he pushes her down into the pillows and undoes his jeans, drags them off along with his underwear to lie next to his other discarded clothes on the floor and leans into kiss her again, trailing his lips down her jaw, nipping at her throat, the small rise of her breasts before covering her nipple with his mouth and sucking through the pale fabric. 

And he doesn't give it a second thought. 

Either it's lack of blood to his brain and he concedes wryly later that this may well have been the case, or it's just that he's done worrying. She wants this. He does too. There's really not much more to it.

So he moves with her, head to her chest, mouth working, the smell of her filling him, saturating his senses, climbing into him through his pores and settling there. He hasn’t done this before, hasn’t used his mouth on her like this. His hands yes, big and rough covering her over and under her clothes, thumbs gently flicking the hard points of her nipples while she sighed into his neck and her fingernails scraped along old scars and made them new again.

But not this, not his tongue, not his teeth, not his spit and his fingers snaking underneath her top to trace that soft smooth skin and hold her down.

He guesses tonight is about new experiences.

She’s undulating beneath him now, hesitantly, slow movements barely noticeable if he wasn't pressed to her, buried in her, lost in her. 

“This okay?” she asks and it take a moment to register the question, because it seems insane that she would even ask it, that she’d think that anything she could do, any way she could feel would somehow fall into the realm of “Not Okay”.  


“Daryl,” she prompts again, going still and he looks up at her, kisses her.  


“Yeah Beth. You can do whatever you want, girl.”  


She nods. He can see she’s still nervous, but it’s okay, so is he.  


_So is he._

But he's not going to worry about that.

He moves off her, lies down on his side facing her, fingers tracing the edge of the wet patch on her top where his mouth was seconds ago. A little shiver runs through her, prickling her skin and she arches into him. His little flame, his little fire. 

_Beth_.

He kisses her again, soft, slow, hand moving off her breast and running down her arm to entwine her fingers with his.

“It’s okay,” he says more to himself than to her. “It’s okay.”

“I know,” she breathes. “I know.”

Of course she does.

He pulls her hand to his belly, lets her rest it there, gentle rubs, more spirals, dropping lower and lower. Still uncertain, but eager now, her knuckles grazing against his cock, which stands up hard and straight between them.

She gasps. He doesn’t really think it’s surprise. She knows how hard he gets for her, when he presses up to her at night. When she rolls her hips and he worries he’ll come right there against her ass. And that there’ll be nowhere to hide and she’ll know and they can’t pretend it didn’t happen. 

But it hasn't happened. Not yet. None of this has happened.

_Maybe it’s just so good to burn._

But not now, not for much longer.

She cups him in her palm, lightly, softly. If it weren’t for the heat of her hand he might not know she was there. 

He breathes, resists the urge to buck against her. Resists also the urge to pull away and take her right there.

“My girl,” he whispers as her fingers curl around him, as they squeeze, as they rub, as they make him lose his fucking mind.

She’s hesitant and inexperienced. He knows these things already, knows she’s a virgin and that not much went on with Jimmy and Zach, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care at all, because this is for her. This is her doing what she wants and somehow somewhere he believes that it’s because what she wants is to make him to feel good

So he covers her hand with his and shows her how to stroke, slow and deep at first - long, drawn out movements that he feels slamming into him and shooting through his veins, rushing through his blood until his tongue is heavy and thick in his mouth and he can’t form the words he needs to tell her what she’s doing to him, to let her know.

It’s fine though. He thinks she understands his groans and grunts well enough. Thinks he’s getting the message across just fine as she works her hand over him, naughty little fingers tugging at him, wet palm moving in a slow circle over and under him.

His little fire. His flame. His girl.

He lets go of her hand to touch her face, run his thumb along her cheekbone and scatter kisses in her hair. She’ll be okay on her own, she doesn’t need him to show her anything anymore. He tries to kiss her mouth but she moves into him, resting her forehead against his chest, eyes downcast, eagerly watching what she’s doing, fascinated seemingly by the way he’s now rolling his hips against her fist, the strangled noises coming out of the back of his throat. Fascinated that she can do this to him, that she can create this.

Although he suspects she knew it already. He thinks she knows a lot of things.

And it builds, strong and sure, until he feels like he’s drowning and choking and his cock is throbbing and aching in her hands.

He finds words. Somehow. He’s not sure how.

But they’re words and he grabs onto them, holds them and tries his best to spit them out in some order that makes sense.

“God Beth, you’re gonna make me…”

And if anything that makes her stroke harder, her movements becoming more deliberate, purposeful, pushing her head further into his chest so that he has to hide his face in her hair and grip her shoulder tight enough to bruise. 

He tells himself it’s going to be okay. No one has actually ever lost their mind because of this. No one he’s heard of at least. But then again maybe he’ll be the first. At this point he thinks it’s pretty likely.

_Maybe you can burn too much. Maybe._

And then there’s her voice, sweet and gentle, that lilt he knows like his own name. “Wanna make you feel good Daryl. Wanna make you feel so good,”

And that’s it. Not her hand, but her words which pushes him over the edge, sends him flying into that exquisite oblivion that she just this second created for him. And instead of falling through space and time, like he knows he should, like he knows this goes, he shatters under her, heaving her name and sobbing into her hair as his pieces go flying, as they fall, as they settle and as her arms around him and her lips against his chest pull them all back together. And he's choking and sobbing and crashing into her and she holds him until his shuddering stops. Until his breath cools. Until his heart breaks.

She holds him forever. 

***

Time passes. He’s not sure how much. But he doesn’t care. He lies there holding her, while she kisses him, those small chaste kisses that started this whole thing, and all he has to do is breathe. And he can do that. He can control that. 

In. Out.

Breathe.

He can do anything he likes.

Eventually she moves away from him, back to her side of the bed, to her pillow, where she watches him, eyes big and blue and wise beyond her years.

He can see streaks of his come on her hand and another stain near the hem of her top. He doesn’t want to know what the sheets between them look like.

“Sorry,” he says. He doesn’t think she’ll much care but he says it anyway..

“Don’t be sorry.”

He reaches out, touches her lips with his thumb, no need to be coy now, no need to feel the eyes of the world on him as he does it. No need to worry about people staring or having opinions. Only she exists here. And him. And he can touch her like this if he wants.

“Jesus girl,” he whispers and she smiles. 

She’s beautiful. She’s so fucking beautiful that it hurts to look at her. Her golden hair gleaming in the candlelight, the shadows on her skin, the hard twin points of her nipples through that tiny top.

The translucent and ever expanding patch of wetness on her panties.

He groans, another strangled noise that doesn’t sound at all like him.

He’s not done.

They’re not done. Not yet.

He glances up at her again, meeting her eyes and she nods.

“It’s okay,” she says. “You can.”

So he shifts over to her, kisses her lips, tastes her mouth. She smells of sage and musk. Sunshine. And god, he loves her so fucking much and all he wants to do is make her happy, make her smile, make her feel good. 

He reaches for the edge of her top, pulls at it where it’s sticky and stained from his orgasm and she slips it over her head, giggling as one of the straps snags in her hair and he has to help her untangle herself. Her panties are next and he barely gives it a second thought as he tugs them down her legs and loses them somewhere in the sheets. 

There’s so much he wants to do. So many things he wants to do to her and with her and choosing seems cruel. But they have tonight. And tomorrow. And all the nights that follow those. He’s not going to sweat it. There’s time. There has to be.

He takes her hand in his own, lifts it to his lips and kisses her palm.

“Show me,” he asks. And she does.

Circles on her clit, slow at first, slow and loose, fingers almost languid as they follow the line of her lips downward before dipping inside her to scoop out wetness and return to the centre of her pleasure. Slow circles becoming faster, tighter, as her hips lift off the bed and her breath comes out in short, hard gasps. He hears his name in there too, gritty, rasping over the wet sounds her fingers are making.

“Daryl please. Please.”

He thinks back to a few weeks ago. Thinks of how far he's come. And all that bullshit, all that worrying, it's just not important. This is important. This here, with them. The kissing and the touching and how suddenly he's nudging her hand aside with his head and somehow finding the courage to press wet kisses into her even wetter flesh.

He's not sure when he decided on this, when he realised this is what he wanted. He's thought about it obviously. Thought about making her come and all the different ways he could do it. Wondered about her secrets, what she likes and how he could give it to her. But he doesn't remember making a decision, doesn’t remember deciding that above everything he wants to taste her and drink her and eat her up.

Merle always had a lot to say about it, none of it good - comments about boxed lunches and eating at the Y - but then again Merle always had a lot to say about everything and most of it was bullshit and he really doesn't want to think of Merle right now. Not when she's here and she's naked and all he's ever wanted is right in front of his face.

So he doesn't. And it's easy not to.

Instead he runs his tongue along her inner lips and she shivers and whimpers and bucks her hips against him eventually pushing herself up on her elbows to watch him and maybe it should scare him to look at her now, to lose himself in her blue stare but it doesn't. For a second he feels invincible, so he looks at her, catches her gaze and holds it. 

She’s chewing her lip like he does, pulling it into her mouth and popping it out.

“Do it Daryl,” she whispers. “Please do it.”  


And he does, ducking down and running his tongue lightly - so very lightly - over her folds, starting high at the apex of her lips and moving steadily downwards to where she’s soaked and sodden and almost flows into his mouth, where she tastes of summer and rose petals. Sweet and salt and a hint of something so undeniably her that it makes him groan deep in his chest.  


They can have this. They can both have this. And he can give it to her. And it doesn't matter how. It doesn't matter that his guts are twisted and he's shaking and doesn't know what the fuck he's doing anymore - if he ever did - it doesn't need to be perfect it just needs to feel good. 

She's squirming when he presses his tongue to her, hard, steady, one hand on her hip to hold her down, the other edging towards her entrance, her heat.

Another whimper, a strangled _Dar-yl, Dar-yl_ falling out of her mouth and he's not at all surprised to find that he's hard again. His cock stiff and throbbing against the sheets. 

And he's not going to do a damn thing about it.

His hand brushes against her. She's hot and wet, sticky even and, as he starts to flick the hard nub of her clit with the tip of his tongue, he slowly presses two fingers into her. 

And she feels so fucking good.

She arches up to him, says his name again or some close approximation of it. Words and sounds born out of the earth and the stars, gospel mixed with the most wicked incantation. A spell maybe. More likely a curse.

And then there's him. And all he can say is _Beth. Oh my god Beth._

He starts to move again, fingers pumping slowly in and out of her, waiting for her to tell him to stop, waiting to do something wrong, something that hurts or scrapes, something to end all this.

But he doesn’t. Somehow he doesn't and he finds her rhythm, moves in time to some inner metronome that only they can hear.

It's not long. It's not long at all. He's tasted nowhere near enough of her, drank far too little, when she comes. She stretches under him, toes curling, back arching, the tendons in her arms and legs standing out like ropes before crying his name and falling back into herself. And then she’s grabbing at him, at his hair, at the sheets, her thighs clamping down hard on either side of his head and he fucks her through it with his fingers, hard and deep, rolling her clit between his teeth until it's too much and she pushes his head away and lies there, a whimpering ruin of flesh and bones.

 _Beth_.

The room is hazy, air thick and warm. He can see she's not completely with him yet, still spinning in that oblivion, still shaking, eyes wide, pupils blown and a sheen of saliva on her lips as her skin still prickles and her small breasts heave.

It’s okay, she can take all the time she needs.

In time he withdraws his fingers from her, licks the silky strands of her off them and then waits, patiently hands on her thighs for her to come back. It's not long until she does. Her breathing slows, becomes regular, and she looks up at him eyes focusing and a smile, almost shy, tugging at her lips.

No words, they don't need that. He’s not going to consider what they’ve just done, what he’s done to her and how it made them feel. He’s not going to overthink this. Not now, not in this golden place they've created, not in this room where everything is warm and languid and full of them. It is. It just is. And that’s all it needs to be.

She reaches out. He goes to her. Plants his elbows on either side of her head and rests between her thighs where he can feel her heat and her damp against his belly. She touches his face, tangles her hands in his hair where it grows long and wild down his back.

They both ignore how hard he is as he kisses her forehead and her cheeks, her jaw, the soft skin of her neck where he can feel her pulse.

"Think I'm gonna stick around," she whispers. “Hang onto you for a while.”

"Yeah?" He nips at her neck.

"Yeah," she says. "Till you're old and grey."

"Already old and grey girl.”

“Till you’re older and greyer.”

“All right,” he groans and she grins.

And somehow he doesn’t feel old and grey, not now, not like this while he’s body is flush with her and she’s kissing his chin and his throat and her hands are tracing the scars on his back like they’re just as deserving of her attention as the rest of him. 

_You gotta have the bad parts Daryl. You gotta. How else would you know where the good parts are?_

But she’s kissing him now, her tongue licking into mouth, tasting herself on him, little moans reverberating in the back of her throat and he gives up on entirely on thought or philosophy and plunges his hands into her hair, gives himself over to it, to her.

He could have her. He could take her right there. Pull her onto his cock and let her set the pace. But not now. They have time. He’ll make sure of it. 

And it's so good just to burn. 


End file.
